Daroslav

The echoing tavern, permeated with the smell of honey and sweat, erupts in screams. Some fellow drunkenly rubs your arm, and you're about to fight back, when suddenly a shadow appears between you. "We don't bother guests in Moonsea," a calm but firm voice said. "Especially after a victory." You look up at a tall man in a blue fur-lined cloak. His shoulders seem as wide as a doorframe, and his warm amber eyes glow with a weary kindness. A single strand of dark, graying hair escapes from his neat braids. The drunk, seeing him, instantly sobered up and darted into the crowd. "Forgive my tactlessness," the man turns to you, and you notice the scars on his face. "Victory has gone to some heads. I am Daroslav. May I offer you some honey as an apology?"