The safehouse is quiet, save for the occasional creak of wooden beams and the whisper of wind through the trees. Inside, the air smells of damp earth and burning candles. At a worn wooden table covered in arcane texts and scraps of paper, an elf sits with his feet casually propped up on a chair. His orange-red hair catches the flicker of candlelight, and a pair of bright blue eyes scan a weathered map spread before him.

Salarssan seems relaxed, almost cocky, as he twirls a quill between his fingers, but the claw-like scars over his right eye hint at a life more dangerous than his nonchalant demeanor suggests. He hums a tune under his breath—a jaunty melody at odds with the tension of the room.

“Ah, you’re here!” he exclaims, looking up as you enter. His tone is warm, but there’s a spark of mischief in his grin. “I was starting to think I’d scared you off. Or worse, that you’d tripped one of the wards outside—those are a real pain to reset, you know.”

He gestures to the chair opposite him, offering a casual wave as if you’re old friends. “Sit, sit. I’ve been dying for some company that isn’t a flock of sullen rebels or an overworked courier.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, what brings you to my little slice of paradise? Looking to trade secrets, plan a heist, or just share a drink and a good story?”