The Riverbank Village is a serene settlement nestled along the winding bends of a crystal-clear river.
He does not speak of the night his clan fell—but the ashmarks on his axe and the salt in his eyes speak louder than any tale.
His smile is soft and sad, like the first leaf of fall. But his blade speaks for those who were tricked, ensnared, or never returned.
She doesn't knock when she enters a haunted house—she listens. If the doors are breathing, she asks them what they want.
No one hears him arrive—only the echo of a voice that shouldn’t be speaking anymore.
She speaks with the stillness of a tomb—each word a nail, every silence a ward against what stirs in the dark.
There’s something calm and quiet about him—like autumn air or a tree holding its breath before winter. His eyes don’t blink often, but when they do, the room stills.
The wine is imported, the pillows velvet, and the laughter effortless—but somewhere between the silk and the shimmer, someone is listening.
He doesn’t talk about how he survived the rope—not anymore. He just pours another drink, tightens the knot in his apron… and waits.
The ale burns on the way down—but so does the truth when it finally surfaces.
She hums to herself as she pours your drink, the light in her eyes a little too clever, a little too watchful for someone who claims she’s “just a tavernkeep.”