I say "I'm in" and order drinks to seal the deal

You flash a wide, toothy grin, hefting your battleaxe onto your shoulder with an easy swing. “Sounds like a solid crew, I'm in. How about we seal this pact over a round of drinks? Nothing like ale to bind a band of misfits, eh?” Your voice carries a roguish charm, and you let your gaze linger on Lirien, tipping your head with a playful wink.

Korvax grunts, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents. “Two days’ march. Bandits on the road, wyverns in the hills. Relic’s guarded by a construct—or so the last drunk who stumbled out of there claimed. We split the take four ways. Fair?”

You nod, not yet willing to fully commit to sharing a treasure you may need personally. Korvax, however, grunts again, seemingly satisfied with your acceptance. "Dragons leave echoes in the world—magic, myths, even in people." says Sylvara. "I think there is some kind of draconic power in the ruins, so we best be prepared for that as well." Lirien giggles, nudging Sylvara with her elbow. “He’s already fitting in, don’t you think? Bet he’s got stamina for days.” Sylvara doesn’t laugh, but her tail gives a quick flick, and her eyes narrow slightly—assessing, intrigued.

"Oh, I'm not sure I'm equal to a beauty like you Lirien." You respond playfully,

“Oh, I see how it is—flattery and booze. You’re speaking my language, Dracarion. Lead the way, you gorgeous brute.” She sways her hips as she falls into step beside you as you go to get the drinks and return, brushing her arm against yours just enough to make it clear she’s game. The flirtation flows effortlessly with her—she’s quick-witted, bold, and clearly enjoys the dance of words and glances. You can already imagine how easy it’d be to tumble into something heated with her, her playful energy stoking the ever-present fire of your curse.

But even as Lirien’s flirtation lights up the table, your attention keeps drifting to Sylvara. She sits across from you, sipping her ale with a grace that contrasts the tavern’s chaos. Her tail curls around the leg of her chair, and whenever you lock eyes there is that same spark. During a lull—while Korvax drones on about the best way to skin a wyvern—you seize the moment to lean toward her, lowering your voice. “You mentioned draconic power in the ruins. You seem to know a lot about it—about dragons. Where’d you pick that up?”

Sylvara’s lips twitch into a faint, knowing smile, her amber eyes glinting in the firelight. “Something in the blood,” she echoes, her tone teasing yet curious. “You’re not wrong—I’ve felt it since you walked up. Maybe we’ll find out just how deep that runs.” She doesn’t break eye contact as she accepts the fresh mug of ale you slide her way, her fingers brushing yours briefly—deliberately, you’d wager. The touch sends a jolt through you, stoking the ever-present fire of your curse, and her tail gives a slow, almost hypnotic sway behind her.

You down your own mug in a single, hearty gulp, the bitter ale doing little to quench the heat building in your core. Lirien, meanwhile, notices the exchange and leans over, resting her chin in her hand with a mock pout. “Hey, now, don’t go getting all scholarly with Sylvara and forget about me. I’ve got affinities too, you know—music, mischief, and a good time.” She wiggles her eyebrows, clearly unwilling to let you slip away from her orbit entirely.