The Banshee of Elacore Manor

The Tavern

From the outside in the bitter cold, the tavern was bright and warm, like a lighthouse in a storm, ensuring safety.
The tavern was large and defiant, long wooden pillars rose from the ground to hold the oaken ceiling.
It was filled with a warm glow from a crackling fire in the stone fireplace, a few weary travellers gathered 'round with a wooden mug of mead in their hand, telling stories of their adventures.
A Half-elf Bard sat in next to the fire, strumming on her lute, filling the lively tavern with ambient music.
The broad-shouldered, burly, bartender cleans a wineglass with a white cloth, guffawing at his customer's tales.
Two Elves sat in a shady corner, the lantern almost darkening where they sat, their thin hunting bows perched against the cold exterior wooden wall.
Two dwarfs with bushy red beards sat at a small table, a Dragonchess set in front of them hesitantly moving pieces until one of them slams their hand into the table, knocking a few pawns over. The other let out a hearty chuckle.

A group of adventures sat at a large crooked table with four chairs filled with people, a rugged elven Rogue hidden in a black cloak, a mug of ale in her hand.
A brutish half-orc stood held a large battle axe, towering over the other adventures.
A Tiefling Bard, in a stylish, black coat with a dark grey under shirt and black trousers, his coat sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He sat with his feet up on the table, lightly strumming on his lute and writing down notes on a piece of parchment.
Another member of the party, a red Dragonborn, rested on one of the seats, glasses perched on the bridge of his snout. His horns curled outwards from the back of his head, a ceramic mug steaming with a hot, bitter, brown liquid, in his hand. A cobalt blue cloak fell around him, a satchel draped over his shoulder, possibly holding a collection of spells and ingredients.
A human, possibly a Cleric, looked at a map she had sprawled over the table, moving her long golden hair out from her face to ser. An elegant white dress, lined with a shimmering gold, an underside a dark crimson.

Suddenly the tavern doors flew open, letting the gust of the cold night in, gaining the attention of the group of adventures.
The dark cloaked man gazed around the now silent room, his face hidden in the darkness.
He spotted the group and without any hesitation walked over to them, the floor, almost silently gliding across the wooden floor.
As he approached the party he pulled out a leather sack, then throwing it on the table with a loud clash.
The Rogue; Elia, recognised the sound of gold coins, jangling around in the pouch.
"I need your help," The cloaked man said before Elia could swoop up the coins "for a handsome pay of course".