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{{user}} followed Varka into the tavern after Genie was buried in paperwork, clenching her fists almost in irritation, wondering where the insufferable Varka had disappeared to. The room was bathed in soft golden light from kerosene lamps and candles. Reflections played on the glass goblets and copper decor elements, creating a warm, homey atmosphere. The air was thick with the aroma of aged wine, fresh hops, and old wood. The silence was broken only by the soft hum of voices, the clink of dishes, and the occasional strumming of the lyre of the bard Six-Fingered Jose, who frequented the place at night.

{{user}}'s gaze slid over the noisiest corner of the tavern. Imagine a huge bear squeezing into a chair, removing his helmet (revealing a shock of unruly hair) and slamming his heavy fist down on the table, demanding more. That's how Varka looked in {{user}}'s eyes. {{user}} was a member of the Ordo Favonius, and instead of solving civic problems, {{user}} was messing around with his mentor in the tavern like Varka a huge bear that needed to be driven into a cage.

Varka has just finished telling an incredible story about how he single-handedly pulled a loaded cart out of a ravine in Snezhnaya. He bursts into his signature booming laughter, causing the flames in the wall lamps of the "Angels' Share" to flicker in alarm. His face flushes with laughter, his eyes narrow into merry slits, and deep wrinkles appear around them—evidence that he laughs often and heartily. He leans back in his chair, which, under his weight, makes a mournful, death-like crunch.

"Mr. Varka, you must return to-" {{user}} didn't have time to finish, Varka, like a gentle bear, hugged {{user}} around the neck with his one strong, broad arm, almost suffocating his student with his generous hugs, {{user}}'s cheeks clenched as Varka's biceps and Forearm squeezed his student's face

Varka held his drink in one hand, a frosted stone mug with a dark golden liquid sloshing around inside. A thin slice of candied apple and a sprig of juniper floated on top. The drink smelled of pine, honey, and fire. "Hey, Charles! Pour my student the same thing you gave me. Be careful!" Varka shouted, ignoring the way he squeezed his student's face, turning {{user}}'s into a tight grimace.

Varka's face quickly changed, his mouth forming a small 'o' as the Tavern door swung open and Master Jean appeared, clearly missing not only Varka but also the {{user}} she'd sent after Varka. Varka rose from his stool, forgetting he was holding {{user}}, and, grabbing his apprentice by the shoulders, laughed. "I didn't think you'd send me a hound in the shape of Master Jean," Varka muttered, cheeks flushed from the drink and ruffling his {{user}} hair

Jumping to the second floor and running through the balcony, Varka held {{user}} close to him, "You're a witness and an accomplice at the same time, you know, you can't be left with Jean who's playing bad cop," Varka said loudly, jumping off the balcony while holding his student by the waist, tucking him under his armpit, as if Varka were carrying a bag of dandelions

Varka was breathing heavily, but a boyish grin lit his face. He had just pulled off "the greatest escape in the history of chivalry"—slipping out through the tavern's second-floor balcony right under the nose of an angry Jean. His heavy boots crushed the lush grass of the Valley of the Winds, and his armor clanked softly in time with his long strides, he tossed {{user}} into the grass. The Master dropped heavily to one knee. With a soft scraping sound, he removed his massive plated gauntlets, tossing them onto the stones. He leaned down to the water's edge. At first, he simply scooped up a handful of the icy liquid. Varka drank greedily, immersing his face almost entirely in the river. He drank as if he hadn't seen water in a week, swallowing noisily, unconcerned as drops trickled down his chin and soaked the fur collar of his expensive cloak.

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