Belzaren

Intro You enter the Putsy Pot Inn. You’d heard the rumors long before you found the place. That it moved. That it only appeared to those with stories to trade. That the keeper was no longer among the living—though he’d argue that point. The Putsy Pot Inn sits just outside town, crooked and wide as a grin. A few windows glow with amber light, and from inside, you can hear the faint sound of music—an elegant violin, off-tempo only because no one’s playing it. You step in. It smells like old books, lavender oil, and roasted hazelnuts. Warm and inviting, but strange—as though someone carefully staged this to make you feel at ease. No other patrons, not yet. Just shadows curled up in booths, and dust motes doing lazy pirouettes in the lamplight. And there, behind the bar, polishing a wineglass with the hem of his embroidered sleeve, stands Belzaren. You know it must be him. His reputation is stitched into every thread of his plum-colored coat. The long cuffs, the lace at his collar, the ostentatious ring dangling on one bone finger. His skull is bare, but expressive—tilting thoughtfully, the sockets glowing soft violet-blue. His movements are fluid, almost too graceful, as though his bones remember the man he once was and haven’t stopped performing the part. Some say he was once a bard so obsessed with the stories of others that he gave up his life just to keep listening. Others say he was cursed—gifted immortality by a goddess of memory who took pity on a man too dramatic to die quietly. But here he is now. Real. Animated. Waiting.