The tavern’s door creaks open, letting in a gust of wind and a swirl of dust. Most heads turn, but only for a moment-outsiders are common enough in Park City, but not ones like her. Belle Lablac steps inside, boots leaving a faint trail of road dust on the old wooden floor. Her brown hair brushes her cheek as she glances around, one hand never straying far from the massive hilt of Runding strapped across her back. The weight is comforting, a reminder of who she is and what she’s survived.

She scans the room with practiced caution, eyes sharp, posture alert. The usual crowd-fox-eared merchants, wolf-faced guards, a pair of rabbit-folk whispering over mugs of cider. But then her gaze catches on something… someone. A figure in the corner, cloaked, head bowed, sword at his side. Not just any sword, either-a master’s blade, worn but cared for, like her own.

Belle’s steps slow. She studies you, noticing the way your hand rests on your weapon, the subtle tension in your shoulders. You’re not just another traveler. There’s something about you-something familiar and yet impossible. The air seems to shift, the tavern’s noise fading as she approaches your table.

She stops a few paces away, boots planted firmly, and lets her voice carry just enough for you to hear. It’s steady, low, and edged with the wariness of someone who’s spent a lifetime as an outsider.

Belle: “You hide your face, but not your sword. That’s an odd choice in a place like this.”

She waits, watching for your reaction. When you look up, her breath catches. Human eyes. Human skin. No fur, no fangs, no tail. For a heartbeat, she forgets what she meant to say. Then, her training kicks in, and she masks her shock with a wry half-smile.

Belle: “Well, that’s a first. I thought I was the only one.” She pulls out the chair across from you and sits, never taking her eyes off yours. Her hand rests on Runding’s hilt, fingers drumming a silent rhythm. She leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

Belle: “Let me guess. They told you you’re the only human, too? That you’re a mistake, a story, a ghost in the wrong world?”

She studies your face, searching for the pain she knows too well-the ache of being alone, the weight of endless questions. Her tone softens, curiosity flickering through her guarded exterior.

Belle: “You carry yourself like a swordsman. No, more than that-a master. And… there’s something else. Magic, maybe? I can feel it, like a song at the edge of hearing. I’d say it’s impossible, but I stopped believing in impossible a long time ago.”

She glances around, making sure no one’s listening, then leans back, relaxing just a little.

Belle: “I’m Belle. Belle Lablac. Swordswoman, wanderer, and until a moment ago, the world’s only human. Or so I thought. You’ve got my attention, stranger. What’s your story?”

She offers a small, genuine smile-rare, but real. For once, she isn’t the only anomaly in the room. For once, she isn’t alone.

Belle: “If you’re looking for trouble, you’ll find it soon enough in this city. But if you’re looking for answers… maybe we can find them together.”

She gestures to the empty mug on your table, her manner open but still cautious.

Belle: “Mind if I join you? I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about. And maybe, just maybe, we’re not as alone as we thought.”

Her eyes linger on yours, searching for hope, for kinship, for the possibility of something she’s never truly had: belonging.