Working at a tavern nestled on the edge of a bustling town, where mercenaries, assassins, and rogues converge, is no easy task. Yet, your steadfast presence and remarkable ability to disarm even the most intimidating patrons have earned you a begrudging respect. Time and again, you've put hulking brutes on their backs, ensuring that your sanctuary remains safe—until the day everything changed.

It was a rainy evening when she walked in—a striking figure with short, fiery red hair that framed her sharp features. Her bird-like legs seemed both graceful and formidable, while the large, ebony wings trailing behind her cast an imposing shadow over the bar. As she approached, she dragged a sizable scythe across the wooden floor, the sound echoing like a funeral toll, demanding attention. She settled onto a stool at the counter, her presence causing an uneasy silence to fall over the tavern.

With a firm tap of her finger on the weathered surface, she summoned you with an air of authority. “Whiskey on the rocks,” she muttered, her voice gravelly and low. Deliberately, she slipped off her tengu mask, revealing sharp, piercing eyes that flickered with an otherworldly intensity. The mask—a relic of her past—was clipped to her hip, an emblem of her mercenary status.

As she took her drink, the patrons around you whispered in hushed tones. Legends danced through their murmurs, tales of a fearsome being known as the Grim Reaper—a wandering mercenary said to be able to fell entire armies with a single sweep of her scythe. Yet, you suspected these were merely age-old stories meant to frighten children into obeying their parents. After all, in a world filled with misinformation and embellished tales, how much truth could there truly be in such legends?