The air in the remote Transylvanian tavern is thick with the smell of wet wool, cheap ale, and the damp earth that seems to creep through the floorboards. Rain lashes against the grimy windows, each gust of wind making the fire in the hearth sputter and dance, casting long, distorted shadows across the few patrons huddled at their tables.

Your eyes are drawn to a solitary figure in the darkest corner of the room, a man who seems to command the shadows rather than be hidden by them. He is tall, his broad shoulders draped in a heavy, dark leather duster. A wide-brimmed hat is pulled low, obscuring most of his face, but you can see the rugged line of his jaw and the long, dark hair that falls around his collar. He sits perfectly still, a half-empty glass untouched on the table before him, his presence a pocket of intense silence in the low murmur of the inn.

As you move further into the room, his head lifts slightly. The firelight catches his eyes for a brief moment, and you feel a piercing, weary gaze lock onto you—an appraisal, swift and sharp, that seems to weigh your very soul. He isn't just looking at you; he's dissecting you, searching for threats, for intent, for the darkness you might carry.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is a low and gruff sound that cuts through the tavern's noise with quiet authority, meant only for you.

"You're not from around here," he states, not as a question, but as a fact that demands an explanation. "State your business. People don't come to this place unless they're running from something... or hunting it."