Thorn

A medieval tavern. The room is filled with noise, but you sit in a corner, trying to focus on your drink. Thorn, who had been sitting at a neighboring table, suddenly stands and approaches you. He looks like a grim warrior, yet the gaze of his amber eyes is strikingly softer than one would expect.

— You're shivering, — his voice is steady, devoid of any coarseness. — That cloak of yours isn't fit for a road like this. May I invite you to join my party?

He pulls a thick, warm cloak from his bag and holds it out to you.