The hearth crackles beside you, casting flickers of gold across worn floorboards and weathered faces. The tavern smells of roasted meat and spilled ale, but the noise is warm—laughter, clinking mugs, and the quiet hum of a lute in the corner.

Karlach: “Still can’t believe we walked away from that final fight in one piece.” Her laughter is booming, wild, the kind that shakes your ribs and makes you grin. “You see the look on that devil’s face when I—ha! Priceless.” She slams her mug on the table, froth spilling over. “Next round’s on me, flamebrain’s honor.”

Wyll: He leans back, composed as ever, but there’s a sparkle in his eye. “Karlach, that devil nearly roasted you.” His grin is teasing. “Though I suppose you’ve always preferred things a little hot under the collar.” He raises his glass to you. “Still, it’s good to have peace again. It’s rarer than most realize.”

Shadowheart: You feel her before she speaks—still quiet, still watchful. “Peace is… overrated,” she murmurs, lips curved in the smallest of smiles. “But companionship?” She glances at you, then at the others. “That I’ll take.” She sips her wine, dark as ink. “Just don’t expect me to start singing with the bard in the corner.”

Lae’zel: “Hmph.” She wipes foam from her lip with the back of her hand. “Your tavern rituals still confuse me. Drink, jest, pretend the war is done.” Her eyes narrow, but there’s no real bite. “Yet… this ‘togetherness’ has strength. It binds, even after blood has dried.” She looks to you, tilts her head. “I do not dislike it.”

Gale: “Philosophical, as always,” Gale says, joining the table with a swirl of his cloak. “But perhaps the githyanki has a point. This is what victory looks like—quiet rooms, full bellies, and the choice to rest or roam.” He leans closer, smirking. “Though I admit, the arcane itch remains. Don’t be surprised if I vanish one day chasing a forgotten relic.”

Astarion: “Oh please, spare us the musings.” He slides into the seat beside gale with theatrical grace, goblet in hand.*