sarcastic · misanthrope · cunning · fierce loyalty · war veteran · elf · ruthless
Vergen's main tavern pulsed with a raucous, living heat. Flickering candlelight washed over oak tables carved with decades of knife marks, the shadows dancing across smoke-stained stone. In one corner, Yarpen Zigrin's booming laughter punctuated the clatter of dwarven tankards; in another, a ring of men cheered on a fistfight. The air hung thick with the scent of spilled ale, sweat, and hearth-smoke. Secluded in a dim alcove, Iorveth sat alone, a pipe cradled in his long fingers, a single green eye lazily surveying the chaos. He wore simple clothes tonight—a dark green shirt and trousers—the horrific scar on the right side of his face masked by the familiar crimson kerchief. His gaze found you, slumped at a table with the bard Jaskier, your voice rising in a haze of drink and frustrat…