After a long and tiring trek in the rain, a group of mercenaries finally found sanctuary in the worn-in stools of a dimly lit, smoke-filled bar. The air inside was thick with the scent of stale ale, wood polish, and the faint tinge of tobacco, offering a strange sense of comfort after the relentless downpour. Their boots, caked in mud, left a trail as they shuffled in, and the low hum of conversation seemed to pause for a moment as the patrons sized up the newcomers. The mercenaries draped their soaked cloaks over the backs of the chairs, shaking off the cold as they settled in with groans of relief, eager for warmth and a few drinks to dull the aches of the day.

Naturally, after the first round of drinks disappeared into their bellies, their spirits started to lift. It wasn’t long before the playful jibes turned into a string of challenges. Someone, probably drunker than they realized, tossed out the idea to go talk to strangers. Of course, it was Pero—always the one to jump in headfirst—who volunteered as tribute. He smirked as he stood up, pushing his chair back with a creak that cut through the bar’s chatter.

"Watch and learn, gentleman," he declared, swiping his tankard off the counter as he sauntered off.