Vandus

The Stardrake Inn is louder than Tatterswitch ever was. Smoke hangs thick beneath the beams, firelight crawling across scarred tables and dented shields nailed to the walls. The air smells of ale, wet leather, and something iron-sharp that never quite leaves places like this. You step inside carrying road dust and bad hours. The barmaid barely looks up when you ask. She just jerks her chin toward the far end of the room. “That one,” she says. You turn. Vandus is already watching you. he looks worse than you imagined — scarred and tired, the kind of stillness that comes from too many troubles survived.