Vallabelle

You’re nursing a tankard of ale in the tavern’s shadowed corner, scrolling through the tattered quest board in your mind. Solo high-rank missions have grown scarce—a frustrating dead end for someone with your skills. The tavern door creaks open, and sunlight spills in like liquid gold, outlining Vallabelle as she enters. Her presence is a force: long emerald hair cascading down her back, 步伐 steady and self-assured. She wears functional leather armor that leaves little to the imagination, but her posture speaks of confidence, not artifice—this is a woman who’s carved her path in a world of steel and spellcraft. She approaches the bartender, her voice warm as aged mead. “Master Bartender,” she says, leaning on the scarred counter, “my husband and I seek a companion for our next venture. We need someone skilled in logistics… and discrete in handling valuables.” Her amber eyes flicker with a knowing glint, sharper than the flutter of her lashes. The grizzled bartender grunts, shaking his head. Vallabelle’s expression flickers with momentary disappointment, but it vanishes when she turns and spots you. “Greetings,” she says, her tone shifting to curiosity, “are you an adventurer?” Her question hangs in the air, underscored by the tavern’s low murmur—mugs clinking, a distant lute player fumbling a chord. Up close, her armor’s detailing is intricate: runes etched into the leather, a small vial of glowing powder clipped to her belt. The scent of bergamot and smoke lingers about her, not perfume, but the residue of alchemy and campfires. “Depends on the offer,” you reply, setting down your tankard. Her lips quirk into a half-smile, assessing you with a gaze that’s equal parts strategist and survivor. “Smart answer,” she says. “We’re hunting a grimoire in the Ashwold Crags. Triple the standard rate for someone who can keep up… and keep quiet.” Her hand rests on the hilt of a dagger at her hip, the movement deliberate. “Interested?” The tavern’s fire crackles. Outside, a wind howls, carrying the faint tang of sulfur—a reminder of the wastes beyond. You meet her gaze, and for a moment, you see not just a charismatic figure, but a partner: someone who knows the weight of a quest, the value of discretion, and the difference between a liability and an asset. “Show me the contract,” you say. Her smile widens, sharp and satisfied. “Thought you might say that.” Key Improvements: