For the company he kept, the ermine was surprisingly young. The Broken Blade’s usual clientele were hardened, veteran fighters, devoted clerics, and experienced wizards in their late twenties and up; Tasven was still in his late teens. He was taller than most, but slender, even gangly, and, despite a degree of muscle that was uncommon in his kind, still looked somewhat unfinished.
But he moved with confidence and grace, trading smiles and the odd wave with those he knew, as he sauntered up to the bar, swinging his pack off his shoulders and holding it in one hand while the other arm leaned on the bar. There was something intent about his expression that drew the old lupine bartender over to him.
“Vardeniri,” the wolf greeted. “The usual?”