Gala walks through the town, looking for something, someone who might be interested. Her sleight form might once have been attractive, but her clothes are ill-kept, and the exposed skin on her arms and lower legs has scars, wounds that were not healed by magic, but by time. She runs a finger beneath the talisman on her choker, providing a quick coolness to her throat, before she turns a corner.
Here, is a crowd. Here, at the temple of Moradin, are several individuals gathered. She sees an elf or two among them, which makes her check her step. she stands, and watches, for a few seconds. A leaf, carried on the breeze from a tree she cannot see, floats lazily down beside her,, in the periphery of her vision. Without moving her head, she catches it, and pulls it out of the way. Only her arm moves, purposefully; the rest is still, encased in shadow.
When she has seen enough, Gala takes a step, revealing herself as a silhouette, leaning against a wall, stepping again, getting closer to what seems to be the main conversation.