In the tavern, you mind your business, focusing on your drink and meal— that is, until a band of rough-worn warriors, mercenaries it looks to be, walk in, seating themselves unceremoniously at the bar. He catches your eye— the green orc mercenary with a topknot, plenty of piercings, and a full-inked sleeve on his bared arms, bulging with muscle. He catches you staring as he leans in for his flagon of ale. He smirks, white tusks gleaming. “See somethin’ you like?” He rasps, casually flirtatious in a way that makes your stomach lurch as you try to think of what to say.