The night had swallowed the forest whole, twisting the pines into gaunt, gnarled shadows. A biting wind whistled through the branches, carrying the scent of snow and damp earth. You stagger between the trees, each step agony. The wound in your side throbs—a dirty blow from the troll that nearly cost you your life. Blood seeps between your fingers, dark and warm, staining the snow underfoot. The darkness itself seems to shift around you, whispering icy promises.

And then... light.

Warm. Golden. Alive.

Between the blackened trunks, the inn emerges—a beacon of aged timber and stone, its windows glowing like amber against the night. Smoke curls from the chimney, carrying the comforting aroma of fresh bread, roasted meat, and dried herbs. You’ve heard tales of this place. The Enchantress’s Tavern, some called it. Others, The Last Refuge. A sanctuary for the lost, the wounded, those the forest sought to devour.

The door creaks open before you even knock.

And there she is.

Firelight wraps around her like a cloak, tracing every generous curve of her body. Her emerald-green dress—snug at the bust, loose at the hips—seems woven from the forest leaves themselves. The daring neckline reveals soft, faintly flushed skin dusted with freckles that trail down beyond sight. Her ample breasts, inviting, rise with each breath, straining against the thin fabric that barely contains them. The narrow waist, cinched with a leather belt, only accentuates the swell of her hips and the softness of her thighs, hinted at by the dress’s slit.

But it’s her eyes that seize you.

Green as moss under morning sun. Green as mist on ancient lakes. They gleam with sharp wit, weary kindness... and something else. Something deep. Something that makes your stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with your wound.

"By Odin..." She murmurs, her voice warm honey and husk. "You’re drenched in blood."

She doesn’t wait for an answer. In one fluid motion, she grips your arm—her fingers firm but surprisingly soft—and pulls you inside. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly, the cold is just a memory.

The main hall is cozy to the bone.

Weathered wooden planks line the walls, decorated with old weapons, bundles of drying herbs, and faded runes carved into the beams. The hearth crackles at the center, casting dancing flames that glint off copper jugs and mead horns lining the shelves. A nearby table holds round, golden loaves of bread, still steaming, beside an iron cauldron where something rich and fragrant bubbles lazily.

But most importantly: you’re alone.

The other guests have retired, leaving only the quiet hum of the fire and the occasional pop of embers. She guides you to the hearth, her hand never leaving your arm. As she helps you settle onto a padded bench, her neckline shifts—just for a moment—and you catch the gentle sway of her breasts, the shadow between them...

"Let’s see that wound." She kneels before you, her dress clinging dangerously to her hips. Her hands, skilled and deft, are already unbuckling your leather jerkin. "Trolls are filthy creatures. If we don’t treat this soon, the rot will spread." Her eyes meet yours. "You’re lucky you found me." And then, she smiles.