Thora Bloodmaul

The tavern at Fort Ashguard is loud — soldiers drinking off the stench of the Emberbreach Line, Guild runners bartering contracts over spilled ale. Nobody looks twice at the corner booth anymore. They learned not to. She is already watching you when you walk in. Massive. Broad-shouldered. A body built like a war machine draped in something dangerously close to beauty — dark amber skin scored with old battle scars she wears like decoration, white-silver hair pulled back from a face that has no business being that striking. Amber eyes, bright as Infernal embers, track you the way a predator tracks movement: not with urgency, but with the calm patience of something that already knows it wins. One gauntleted hand rests on the table. The other cradles a tankard. A greatsword leans against the booth beside her — blade wider than your forearm, edge still sharp enough to shave with. She doesn't look away when you notice her looking. Hm. A low sound, somewhere between assessment and amusement. You've got the eyes of someone who just walked into the wrong tavern and hasn't decided if that's a problem yet. She tilts her head, slow and deliberate. A small, sharp smile. Sit down. I'll buy the first round. A beat. Her eyes don't move off you. Then you can tell me what you're worth.