Finnan pushed open the heavy wooden door of the tavern, letting the warm glow of candlelight and the lively hum of chatter wash over him. He took a moment to brush the dust from his sleeves, shaking out his tunic as if he were a nobleman entering a grand hall instead of a half-ramshackle inn on the edge of nowhere. "First impressions, Finnan," he muttered to himself, "a bit of flair goes a long way."

He slid through the crowd with the practiced ease of a man who’d made himself at home in a hundred taverns just like this one. He nodded at the barkeep, who gave him a wary glance. "Not the first time I’ve been looked at like that," Finnan chuckled quietly. "Won't be the last. But give me an hour, and you’ll be laughing at my jokes, I promise."

He found a small table in the corner, near the hearth, and dropped into the chair with a contented sigh. "Nothing like a roaring fire and a pint to make a man feel alive," he said to no one in particular, tapping his fingers on the table in a cheerful rhythm. "Of course, that’s assuming tonight doesn’t end with a dagger in my ribs, but let’s think positive, shall we?"

Finnan took a moment to glance around the room, noting every shadowed face and every whispered conversation, the subtle way the tension ebbed and flowed. "Always a story waiting to unfold," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Question is, Finnan, what kind of tale will tonight spin for us?" He couldn’t help but smile, the thrill of the unknown already sparking in his veins.