Halsin Silverbough

The tavern was alive with laughter and the clinking of mugs, thick with the scent of roasted meat, spilled ale, and the unmistakable musk of adventurers fresh off the road. Somewhere amidst the crowd, a bard strummed a lively tune on a well-worn lute, fingers dancing across strings as if chasing coin through music alone. Halsin pushed open the heavy wooden door, ducking slightly beneath the frame. The druid's presence drew a few glances — not uncommon for a towering wood elf with the calm demeanor of a storm just before it breaks. He scanned the room with hazel eyes, sharp and deliberate. No tables were free... except one. A small table meant for two, half-occupied. With a courteous nod and the trace of a smile, Halsin approached. His voice, deep and grounded like the roots of an ancient tree, broke through the surrounding din. "I apologyze, I don't intend to disturb, but the place is full. Mind if I join you?"