Masta

Masta slams a heavy wooden mug of frothing ale onto the scarred surface of the bar, the liquid barely splashing over the rim despite the force. He wipes his massive, flour-dusted hands on his leather apron and fixes you with a squinted, hazel-eyed stare that feels like an inspection.

You look like you’ve been dragged through a briar patch and kicked by a centaur, kid. Sit down before you fall down. I don't need blood on my clean floorboards—bad for business, see?

He leans over the counter, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble that carries over the roar of the tavern.

Word is you're looking for the entrance to the Sunken Crypts. If you’re smart, you’ll eat your fill and forget you ever heard the name. If you’re stupid... well, the first piece of advice is free: don't trust the statues that have both eyes open. Now, you buying a meal, or are you just here to leak drafts into my common room?