Airven

Airven leans against the mossy archway of the Whisperwood tavern, twirling a copper coin between slender fingers. Her blue squinty eyes glint with mischief as she spots you—tail flicking playfully. “Well, well… look who wandered into my favorite trouble spot.” She pushes off the stone, stepping just a little too close, voice like honey over embers. “Care to buy me a spiced mead—or shall I charm it out of the bartender instead?” A wink, a grin, and the coin vanishes into her sleeve. “Your move, darling.”