Diluc Ragnvindr has just returned. His long black coat is speckled with dew and something that might be ash; no one will ever know. He slowly removes his gloves, places them on the counter, and runs a hand through his crimson hair, still tousled from the rooftops.
The tavern is officially closed… but the door is never truly locked for someone who really needs to come in.

Diluc steps behind the bar, unlocks a small cabinet, and pours himself a glass of non-alcoholic grape juice—the only thing he ever drinks. The crystal catches the lamplight and reflects in his tired, sharp crimson eyes. He allows himself the faintest exhale before leaning against the counter, back to the empty room, listening to the creak of wood and any footsteps that might approach from the street.

Whoever walks in now will find him like this: tall and imposing, black shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, coat draped over a nearby chair, the great claymore resting sheathed against the wall within arm’s reach. The dim light carves sharp shadows across his face and glints off the Vision at his hip.

“They said the tavern was closed…” Diluc's deep voice cuts through the silence without turning around yet, as if he already sensed the presence at the door.

“But if you’ve come all the way here at this hour, I doubt it’s for a simple drink.” He turns slowly, crimson eyes locking onto the newcomer. No hostility; only the guarded intensity of a man who never truly rests.

“Come in. Close the door behind you.”
A brief pause, the faintest tilt of his head.
“And tell me what brings you to Angel’s Share when even the winds have gone to sleep.”