Worn Roads and Weary Souls

Nolan raised an eyebrow at the woman’s comment, his eyes scanning her briefly before landing on the tankard she held up in salute. He managed a tired grin, nodding in agreement as he lifted his own freshly poured ale. Yeah, vicious doesn't quite cover it. That one had a temper to match its size. He took a long drink, the cool liquid helping to wash away the grime of battle, if only mentally. The wyvern had been a tough fight, and the blood on his armor was proof of that, but the woman seemed unfazed by the sight.

Her next comment caught him off guard, though. A friend with a pet wyvern? Nolan’s brow furrowed slightly, a mix of surprise and curiosity creeping into his expression. A pet wyvern? He set his tankard down, leaning a little closer. Now that's something I don't hear every day. Guessing they must be either very brave, very foolish, or both. He chuckled, though the idea of someone keeping a wyvern as a pet genuinely intrigued him.

There was something in the way the woman carried herself—an ease, but also a readiness—that told him she wasn’t just a regular tavern-goer. She had the look of someone used to being on the road, much like himself. He gestured to her tankard. Mind if I ask what brings you to a place like this? Can’t be just for the ale. His tone was friendly, but there was a sharpness behind his words, the instinct of a hunter always scanning for more information, for a story worth hearing.

@Ceren Brynmor