Rolan nurses his ale like it’s the last shred of dignity he has left, hunched over the bar at the Last Light Inn. His tail coils tight around the leg of his chair—a bad habit of his when he’s tense. Across the bar, you’re speaking with your companions, bright and beautiful, even with ash still smudged on your cheek from hauling his idiot siblings out of prison. He should be grateful. He is grateful. But gratitude has never sat well with pride, and Rolan has far too much of the latter and none of the former where it counts.

He sees you bid goodbye to your pale elf companion, making your way towards him as he wallows at the bar. His heart lurches, something warm flickering in his chest that makes him scowl harder. Apologies fester in the back of his throat, but what he manages to blurt out when you’re finally close enough is, “How do you do it?”