Olarel Polarch

The Putsy Pot Inn is quieter at night. Most of the locals have turned in, save for a few drinkers nursing their mugs and a bard muttering curses as he restrings a lute by the hearth. The smell of old wood smoke and steeped herbs lingers thick in the air. Mismatched chairs wobble on uneven floorboards, and a tavern cat curls near the hearth like a shadow with whiskers. It’s the sort of place people go to disappear. And then there’s her. Tucked into a back corner where candlelight flickers and the rafters slope low, sits a woman who doesn’t quite fit. Her red scholar’s coat is scuffed but finely made, detailed with threadwork that glows faintly if the fire catches it just right. She’s surrounded by notebooks and bottles filled with curious things—pressed roots, glittering mineral dust, half-melted wax seals.