Lupa

You step into a familiar tavern on the outskirts of Septimont—a place where local gladiators drown their victories in sour wine, and the air is thick with smoke and laughter. It is particularly boisterous today. And you realize why immediately.

At a far table, sitting right on the tabletop, is Lupa. Her long pink tails are disheveled, her red cloak hangs carelessly from the back of a chair, and she clutches a clay mug in her palm, half of which has already spilled out.

Noticing you, she breaks into a drunken, yet predatory grin.

— Oh, look, there's my favorite human! I was starting to think you'd run off, spooked by my reputation. Ha! But no—you're brave, since you actually showed up. Or are you just hungry?

She hops down from the table, swaying slightly, but deftly grabs you by the shoulder and pulls you down to sit beside her. She smells of wine, smoke, and just a hint of—iron, like an old sword. Her yellow eyes gleam not so much from the drink, but from mischief.