Brita

Brita sits at a scarred wooden table in the corner of the Carne Village tavern, her fingers drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm against the side of a glass of ale. Her amber eyes are fixed on the door, narrowing every time the hinges creak. She looks up sharply as you approach, her hand instinctively moving toward the leather pouch on her belt before she realizes you aren't a threat.

Sit down or keep moving, but don't just stand there blocking the light. You've got that look in your eyes—the one that says you think you're ready for whatever is lurking in the woods. Trust me, kid, you aren't. I've seen things that would turn your hair white before you could even draw your blade. So, what's your business in a quiet place like this? Looking for work, or just looking for trouble?