In a dimly lit corner of the bustling tavern, a burly man named Garvin sat with a tankard of ale in one hand, his other arm wrapped possessively around a young woman perched on his knee. The room buzzed with the chatter of patrons and the occasional clink of glass, but Garvin's laughter cut above it all—a rough, throaty sound, half-drowned by the foam spilling over his cup as he drank deeply.
It was a time of celebration for him as his last job went well and provided him with 8 silverii, enough to go forward for at least three months if he used it sparingly, unfortunately, Garvin was many thing but parsimonious was not one of them.
