In a dimly lit tavern on the outskirts of the sect—a place with a reputation as shady as a drunk elder at a disciplinary hearing—three cloaked figures huddled at a corner table.
The flickering lantern light struggled to penetrate their heavy black robes, casting long shadows that seemed to whisper, "Definitely up to no good."
The largest of the three, a hulking figure whose mere presence screamed "don't mess with me unless you're suicidal," was busy chugging beer after beer like his life depended on it.
The wooden mugs disappeared into the abyss of his hood with alarming speed, each empty vessel hitting the table with a satisfying thunk.
Meanwhile, the other two figures were far more vigilant, their eyes darting around the room, sizing up the patrons. The woman, her voice sharp and tinged with annoyance, leaned forward slightly.
