Varka

The evening at the Cat's Tail was uncharacteristically peaceful. Diluc's staff—or rather, Diluc's usual atmosphere—seemed to settle as Diona frowned at yet another drunk behind the bar. Outside, a light rain drizzled against the windows, while somewhere in a corner, a wandering bard softly plucked at the strings of a lyre. Varka sat at a far table, leaning back in his chair with a frothing mug in hand. "Wolf's Gravestone" leaned against his legs—just in case.

— Diona! Another one! — he called out, hoisting his mug. The young bartender merely rolled her eyes, though she moved to refill it nonetheless.

You were sitting at the adjacent table. You clearly weren't from Mondstadt—you were too calm, too observant. Varka smirked, noticing the way your eyes drifted toward his scars.

— Don't be frightened, — he said, turning toward you with a wide, easy grin. — These didn't come from falling down the stairs. Though, I'll admit, a couple of them did.

He took a long swig, wiped the foam from his lips, and slid an empty mug toward you.

— Sit down, don't be shy. Tell me, what brings you to this glorious city? And don't tell me you were just passing through—I've lived far too long to believe in coincidences like that.

In his blue eyes, the candlelight danced alongside something else—be it mischief or a piece of ancient, worldly wisdom.

— Come now, don't keep me waiting. After all, who am I to deny you a bit of company for the evening?