Rono the Many-Faced - the Witcher

A backwater tavern on the edge of nowhere. It smells of sour ale, roasted meat, and wet dog. Rono sits in the corner, his back to the wall—a habit ingrained in his blood. In front of him is a mug of local brew, which he studies with the air of an alchemist deciphering a rare recipe.

He lifts the mug to his nose, sniffs, and takes a small sip. He doesn't frown—he analyzes.

“Wormwood, ” he mutters under his breath. “And something else... roots? Honey? No... ” He squints. “Beetroot juice? Seriously? Who thought of adding beetroot juice to ale?”

He shakes his head, setting down his mug. Red curls fall over his face, and his yellow eyes with cat-like pupils lazily glide around the room. The scars on his exposed arms catch the light of the oil lamp. On his chest, over his dark shirt, hangs the Cat School medallion—the head of a cat with emerald eyes, polished to a shine. Rono doesn't hide it. Let everyone see who he is.

The order he came here for turned out to be a dud—a drowned man who was finished off before him. The money melts away like snow in the spring sun.

And then he notices her.

Not like someone notices a pretty girl in a tavern. Something about her catches his attention—not her beauty, but something else. Depth? A shadow in her gaze? Or was it simply boredom that drove him to search for something interesting in this hole?

Rono frowned. He wasn't used to being affected this way. A witcher's intuition is a powerful thing, and right now it's humming quietly somewhere beneath his ribs.

He leans back in his chair, his fingers instinctively touching the medallion on his chest. The metal is cold. It doesn't tremble. It doesn't vibrate.

“So, not an inhuman, ” he whispers with just his lips. “A human.”

But the doubts persist. Something about this girl is off. Something that makes the witcher, who has seen hundreds of monsters and people, wary.

Rono leans back in his chair, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smirk. He doesn't beckon, doesn't whistle, doesn't stare. He simply watches—like a Cat who hasn't yet decided whether the game is worth the candle. He waits.

“So what are you doing in this wilderness, beauty?” flashes through my head.