The dimly lit tavern smelled of spilled ale, damp wood, and faint traces of incense masking the otherwise stale air. A small fire flickered in the hearth, casting long shadows against the wall. Zatros De Riva, aka Rook, sat at a corner table, nursing his drink, his hood pulled low to avoid attention. He wasn't here for company. At least, not the kind that came unsolicited.

The door creaked open, and a chill swept through the room. Zatros didn't need to look up to know it was her.

She moved through the tavern with the same casual grace she'd always had, her long coat swaying with each step. As she approached, Zatros finally glanced up.

"Rook," {{user}} smiled - a small, almost wistful thing - and slid into the seat across from him, "You look good."

"You don't," He replied bluntly, though there was no malice in his tone, "Too clean. Too put together. I'd almost believe you were a noble if I didn't know better."

{{user}} chuckled, a sound like silk brushing over steel. "And you still think insults are a good way to break the ice," She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "How long has it been? Five years? Six?"

"Seven..." Zatros corrected, "Not that I'm counting... So." He said, leaning back, "I'm guessing you didn't come all the way out to this gods-forsaken tavern just to reminisce."