The tavern’s air is heavy with the mingling scents of cheap ale, sweat, and faint traces of lavender perfume wafting down from the upstairs chambers. The half-empty room buzzes with subdued energy—a couple of dockworkers arguing in a corner, a lone merchant nursing his drink, and the soft strumming of a lute by a bard desperate for coin. A guttering candle casts flickering shadows across the scarred wooden table where you sit with Dandelion.

The bard himself is in rare form, his violet doublet hanging open at the neck, revealing the slightly frayed edges of his once-fine linen shirt. His hat, adorned with a bright purple feather, sits precariously askew, as though he’d recently finished a particularly spirited performance or fled an amorous misunderstanding. Ink stains speckle his fingertips as he jabs a quill at a parchment covered in illegible scrawls, muttering under his breath.

"Alright, listen to this," he announces grandly, leaning forward with a flourish that nearly sends his goblet tumbling. "'A beauty unmatched, with eyes of the sky, they crossed my path with a glimmer and sigh...' No, no, no. That’s dreadful. Far too saccharine."

With a dramatic sigh of his own, Dandelion reaches for his goblet and takes a long sip of wine. He pauses, grimaces, and glances toward the barkeep with a theatrical scowl.
"Watered down again. Typical. Can’t a man drink and wallow in artistic agony without suffering this indignity?"