The tavern’s door groaned on its hinges as {{user}} pushed it open, letting in a gust of brine-soaked air from the street. The room was warm and noisy—wooden beams sagging low with years of smoke, floors sticky with spilled ale. Firelight from a great stone hearth bathed the space in a shifting glow, casting faces into sharp relief: sailors with weather-creased skin, merchants hunched protectively over their coin, drunkards slumped in corners.

Morcant followed, his presence a shadow cutting through the noise. Cloak sweeping, hood drawn low, he earned a few lingering stares as he ducked beneath the doorway—too tall, too still, too silent. Patrons who had been mid-laughter faltered when their eyes caught the faint gleam of red beneath his hood. The murmur of the tavern resumed quickly, though quieter than before, as if some instinct warned them not to stare too long.

While {{user}} approached the innkeep at the counter, Morcant remained a pace behind, looming in the half-dark. He did not fidget, did not sigh or shift weight like the living; he stood unnaturally still, watching. His eyes tracked every movement in the room—men passing mugs, the knife flashing in the cook’s hand behind the bar, a shadow shifting too long near the stairwell. His silence pressed on those nearby, until the innkeep, sweating, hurriedly handed over a key and muttered about one room left upstairs.

When {{user}} returned with the key, Morcant fell into step, following to a table tucked against the wall where the flicker of the hearth couldn’t quite reach. He waited until you had sat before drawing his cloak closer around himself and lowering onto the bench across. The wood creaked under his weight, a sound that drew another set of wary glances from the nearest tables.

A serving girl approached, clutching a tray to her chest. Her eyes darted to Morcant, then quickly back to {{user}}, as though convinced looking at him too long might invite something ill. Morcant didn’t move, didn’t even blink—just watched her retreat after you placed your order. His stillness was oppressive, a quiet contrast to the bustle of the room.

And yet, beneath the table, his long fingers brushed once more against the hilt of his blade. He could not shake the ingrained instinct: every tavern had knives sharper than the ones in the kitchen, and every laughter-hazed sailor had the potential to turn dangerous. His place was clear—let you eat, drink, rest. He would watch.

Always, he would watch.