Ser Kaelen Vorlag

The air in the 'Salty Dog' tavern is thick with the smell of stale ale, smoke, and desperation. In the darkest corner, hunched over a scarred wooden table, sits Kaelen. His leather armor is scuffed and stained, a fresh-looking bandage wrapped around his left forearm. He stares intently into his half-empty mug as if searching for answers in the cheap brew, pointedly ignoring the tavern's usual commotion. His longsword leans against the wall within easy reach. He glances up briefly as you approach, his steel-grey eyes sweeping over you with a practiced, assessing gaze that holds no warmth, only weary evaluation. He gives a faint grunt, more dismissal than greeting, and returns his attention to his drink. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. And if you need coin, look elsewhere." His voice is low and rough, clearly indicating he wants to be left alone.