Nameless, Lyrian

Ask the guard leaning against the half rotten gate and he'll say she weaseled her way into the town. But if you were to ask the urchins by the side of the road, they'll say she strutted, like the whole town was hers. 

In other words she walked, and nobody tried to stop her.

~~o~~

The stranger walked with the long even stride of a wolf, dark eyes flickering over everything. Her long coat rippled like black waves behind her, her thick black hair obscuring much of her face. A single braid of greasy hair grew from her temple, draping across her back until it touched the dusty ground. 

It meant that she was an orphan, and had been for a very long time. 

The only color that dared to touch her was a thick ribbon of emerald green silk cinched tight across her throat, which her hand kept going to instinctively. Everything else was in monochrome, from her pale skin to her ebony boots.

Her eyes finally stopped their ceaseless motion as they came to rest on the sign in front of her: The Headless Stag, finest ale in Lyrian. The girl snorted and pushed the dry, splintery door open. A wave of hot sweat and stale urine assaulted her nose, and she swiftly drew her coat across her face, so only her dark eyes were visible. 

The barkeep, a thin weasel of a man with a big nose and a small amount of hair looked up at his new customer, sizing her up - and figuring out how much money he could get out of her. "Well, aren't you a lovely girl." His oily voice made her feel cold all over, but she hid it, meeting his watery eyes with a scowl, letting him see her eyes fully. The man seemed to jump back and promptly began cleaning a glass with the same filthy rag he'd used to 'clean' the counter. "What can I get for ye?" He carefully avoided her gaze, shriveled pea of a heart racing, hoping that she'd get far away from him - and soon.

"Oh, just a water." Her pale lips twisted into a smirk as she slid a mahogany disk onto the bar. The Emperor's symbol was deeply engraved into the red-black wood. What little blood was left in the barkeep's face drained abruptly, his eyes dancing between the disk, the stranger, and . . .

His eyes rolled back into his head, knees banging into the filthy floor, his forehead glancing off the equally disgusting table. He gave a small moan, then fell silent. The girl nodded to herself and stepped around the bar, keeping her feet clear of the smelly man's body. She leaned with her elbows just touching the counter-top, focusing on the small group of men who sat by the pub's one and only window. Finally the became silent one by one as they noticed the girl in black.

She gave a long smile, then shouted, "Free ale for anyone who can tell me where the Seedmen are!" Though they had looked excited at the prospect of more to drink, they quickly looked away with the mention of the Amar Kabal. She'd expected that, and prepared something a little more enticing if they refused. She flicked her hand a what appeared to be an empty corner of the room.

The men's eyes instinctively followed her gesture, and - as they looked at the shadow - they understood the fear the barkeep had felt before he fainted. The torivor stepped closer, eclipsing the men with height and terror. Two men leapt up, long knives drawn from under the table, but they were instantly thrown back against the wall, one twitching pitifully, the other still as death. 

"Attack him, and you die. Lie to me, and you die. Try to leave, and you die."

She vaulted over the the counter-top, so that she was standing side by side with the torivor. "Now tell me . . . Where are you hiding the fugitives?"