The heavy wooden door of the tavern creaked as Geralla stepped inside, the chill of the evening air following her in. She gave the room a quick glance—rough, dimly lit, filled with the usual mix of travelers and locals. Her boots clicked against the wooden floor as she made her way to an empty corner.

A serving boy, barely more than a lad, approached her cautiously, balancing a tray of mugs. His eyes flicked nervously over her, no doubt recognizing her Witcher traits.

"What can I get you, ma’am?" he asked.

She gave him a curt nod. "Ale." Her voice was low, steady, with an edge of authority.

After he put it down on the table and she took a good swig and put it down.

"I heard the tales of wanderers vanishing in the dark. Leaving only blood trails. There a contract for the beast?"