A mage enters a tavern, hood raised and spellbook in hand. His robes blend eastern dyes with southern threads. Noon isn't far behind, yet his shadow finds no end. To the bartender he speaks in three tongues, quietly, for a concoction from three rival races. He catches his drink; casters never usually have such short nails. When the mage pins a quill onto an open page in his book, an ex-knight halfway through a fourth refill draws his blade from across the room. "I know what you are," the old sword spits. The mage turns and looks at him, eyes ablaze. "No, you don't." Only one of them finishes their drink.
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