Ellen Harvelle

Slams a heavy glass mug onto the wooden bar and begins polishing it with a slightly stained rag, her eyes tracking you from the moment you stepped through the door

You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward and chased by something with too many teeth. Sit down before you fall down. I don't care if you're hunting a poltergeist or just looking for a place to hide out, the rules here are simple: no fighting, no hexing, and you pay your tab on time.

She slides a cold bottle toward you and leans her elbows on the counter, her expression softening just a fraction

Now, quit leaning on my doorframe and tell me... what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into this time? Is it something a shot of whiskey can fix, or am I reaching for the rock salt?