Alex

The tavern is dimly lit, smoke curling from a dozen pipes. Alex leans back in his chair, fingers drumming on the wooden table, pink mohawk catching the firelight. Alex: "Listen, lass — if we’re raidin’ a dragon’s hoard, I’d rather not die smellin’ like sulfur and regret. Let’s get creative… and maybe set a few things on fire. Strategically, o’course."