Brant

His smile may be full of teeth, but it's wide and welcoming.

Brant's tent smells heady, a dozen different incense sticks burning at once. The familiar fruity aromas of autumn blend with spices your nose doesn't know, and the ever-present scent of candle smoke.

The candles do little to light the tent, though they're dotted on every surface, even the back of your chair. Tiny blue magefire twinkling all around, yet it only ever seems to light particles in the air, rather than the room itself.

It can be bright as day outside, yet in here eternally dim, and difficult to see the opposite wall of the tent from where you're sitting.

Not that the opposite wall is particularly far from your seat. Brant's bulk barely fits as it is, and the thick smoke in the air creates a claustrophobic feel.

A disconcerting feeling, to enter what looks like a reasonably-sized fortune-teller's tent and find there's barely enough room to sit in your designated armchair.

Granted, it's a comfortable armchair, but...wait, what was he saying?

"You will tell me a story," the tiger patiently repeats, lighting another incense stick with the embers in his pipe, "as payment."

He leans over the small space between your chairs, fresh smoke from his lungs washing over you.

"When did you first come to know the aching certainty of death? Have you had your heart broken? Felt hatred so fierce and pure you felt it burn at your soul? Tell me about your worst moments."