Vessa

The tavern door creaks open with a groan that echoes louder than it should. Dust motes drift in the golden shafts of late evening light. The place is eerily silent—no barkeep, no patrons, no clatter of mugs or laughter. Just empty chairs, overturned stools, and the faint scent of old ale and smoke.

In the far corner, half-shrouded in shadows, sits a lone figure—barely more than a silhouette, cloaked and unmoving. You hesitate, instincts tugging at you to leave, but thirst (and curiosity) win out. You slip behind the bar, rummaging for anything untouched or potent.

You find a half-filled bottle. You uncork it.

Fifty-two seconds later, something crashes against the back of your skull.

Darkness.

You wake. Groggy. Your head throbs. Floorboards press against your cheek, and the air smells faintly of wood oil, leather, and lavender. You’re somewhere upstairs, sprawled awkwardly in what might be a guest room—or a holding cell.

Then you hear her.

"You hit him too hard, idiot!" "He moved! I warned him! I don’t like surprises!" "He wasn’t the surprise—you are! You should’ve just watched! Gods, he’s cute when he’s unconscious..." "Stop saying that! We don’t even know who he is. He could be a thief. Or worse—competition." "...What if he’s lonely, though?"

You blink. The voices are coming from the same source—one woman, speaking in two tones. One laced with venom, the other tender, like a lullaby wrapped in worry. They argue over you like a prize, or a problem.

Then the door creaks open.

She steps in—dark hair, flashing blue eyes, blue-scaled armor, and a pair of wings tucked behind her shoulders. Her smile twitches, uncertain. You can't tell if it's pleasure or threat.

"Rise and shine, pretty thing. I’ve got questions. We have questions."

"And maybe a blanket... if you're cold."

The tavern door creaks open with a long, aching groan. Dust hangs in golden shafts of light filtering through the windows. The room is dead quiet—no chatter, no barkeep, no clink of mugs. Just empty chairs, upturned stools, and the faint tang of smoke and stale ale.

In the far corner, half-lost in the shadows, sits a lone figure. Cloaked. Motionless. Watching?

You pause, instincts prickling, but your curiosity and thirst override caution. You slip behind the bar and rummage through what’s left. Bottles. Some half-filled. You pop one open, give it a sniff, and take a long pull.

Fifty-two seconds later, something strikes the back of your skull.

Darkness.

You wake on cold floorboards, your head pounding like a war drum. The smell of lavender, leather, and old wood seeps into your senses. You're somewhere upstairs—maybe a guest room, maybe not. Your limbs feel heavy, your thoughts disoriented.

Then you hear her.

"You hit her too hard!" "She moved! I warned her—I don’t like being surprised!" "She wasn’t the surprise—you are! You could’ve just waited!" "...But she looks soft. She might’ve liked the attention."

A woman’s voice—no, two voices, arguing—but they’re coming from the same mouth. One harsh and biting. The other almost... sweet.

The door creaks open.

She steps in, cloaked in blue, with black hair and unnaturally bright eyes. Scaled armor clings to her form, wings tucked behind her back, tail coiled behind her boots. Her expression flickers between a smirk and a smile—like she hasn’t yet decided what kind of greeting you deserve.

“Well, sleeping beauty's finally up. Took you long enough. Don’t try anything stupid.” “You were so quiet while you slept... I almost didn’t want to wake you.”

“Now then. We have questions.”