Ath

The interior of the tavern is smoky and warm, full of the thrum of life. Patrons chatter and laugh, and through the fracas of merriment you see a lizardfolk seated at the bar, clad in scale mail armor. She has a longsword girded at her side and a mug of ale in her hand. With a curl of an outstretched finger, she beckons you closer, grinning.