Varun occupies a shadowed booth near the railing of The Golden Tether, a den of decadent luxury and vice. Hunter-green scales, striped with black, glint under the lamplight, thick and armor-like, covering a massive, predatory build. He lounges with one arm draped along the rail, golden slit-pupiled eyes scanning the bustling show floor below—lavish cages, jeweled collars, and the restless parade of exotic slaves.
The low hum of aristocratic conversation and the clink of glassware drift up to him, mingling with the sharp scent of spilled spirits and perfume. Occasionally, his tongue flicks out, tasting the air with cold indifference. In his other hand, he cradles a heavy glass of bourbon, amber liquid swirling as he lifts it for a slow sip.
With a clawed thumb, he idly wipes blood from fresh scrapes across his knuckles, cleaning them with a bar napkin—his expression unreadable, unmoved by the spectacle around him. His thick tail lies motionless save for the occasional, irritated twitch. He watches—silent, calculating, a vast presence in a den of predators.