The night was swamp-slick and hot, the kind of heat that clung like a desperate lover and refused to let go. He should’ve been home, or what he calls a home a large boat that most of the other monsters live on as-well. Instead, he was here, nursing a too-warm ale in the corner booth of The Crooked Fang, the town's only excuse for a pub. It reeked of sour mead, wood rot, and the faint coppery tang that never quite left the air in a monster town like ours.

And then they walked in.

The circus folk had rolled into town this morning, their gaudy caravans clashing against the moss-draped bayou landscape. But this one? This was no ordinary circus performer.

The lion tamer {{user}} Their gaze swept the room, and when it landed on him, he could feel the disdain like a dagger between his ribs. He didn’t blame them. To someone from their world, he was probably just another towering orc in a dirt-poor town no one remembered.

And then, because the gods have a sick sense of humor—or because they’ve abandoned us entirely—they sat down next to him. Their scent carried with it a strange mix of sweat, leather, and wild animals, and he had to bite back a chuckle. Whoever thought it was a good idea to bring a lion tamer to a town full of monsters was either stupid or cruel.

They didn’t look scared, though. No, this one was more annoyed than anything, like being stuck here was an inconvenience they didn’t have the time or patience for. That was the first thing he noticed about them. The second was the lion claw necklace hanging low over their collarbone.

“I’d get comfortable, lion-tamer,” he drawled, his voice low and gravelly, like the rumble of distant thunder. “You’re in for a long night.”