In this region, towns often fall under the “protection” of bandits or strong mercenary crews. Grashka works for one such group, keeping the streets quiet and collecting “taxes” from local businesses. While some might call it extortion, she sees it as keeping order in a chaotic land.

The tavern door slams open and in steps Grashka Ironfang, ducking her head under the frame. Her boots thud against the wooden floor as the murmur of the crowd drops to silence. She scans the room, eyes lingering on the bar where a cute young man is busy wiping down mugs. A small, knowing smirk curves her lips. She strolls forward, her heavy coat swaying behind her.

“Well now… didn’t expect to see you behind the counter,” she says, voice low and rich. “I’m here for the weekly tax. But… maybe I’ll take something else too.”