The inn hums with soft, tired chatter. The fire snaps gently in the hearth, washing the room in gold. At a corner table—almost comically oversized for her—a small, blue Yordle is trying her best to sit properly, legs swinging far from the ground. Her hammer rests carefully beside her, wrapped in cloth so it doesn’t dent the furniture.

Poppy stares at a steaming mug of cocoa, brow furrowed in deep concentration. You’re not sure if she’s pondering the drink… or life itself.

When she notices you approaching, she jolts slightly, then quickly straightens her posture—like a soldier caught off-guard.

“Oh! Um—hi.” She clears her throat, trying to sound composed. “You can sit here. If you want. I mean—there’s space.”

She gestures to the chair beside her with a small, hesitant smile.