Dundor Springs/Merri Riot Inn
Morning
In the corner, away from the others, sat a figure in a dark red cloak of fine make, though showing much wear. The face was concealed by the cowl, though one could see a cascade of blonde ringlets escaping from beneath. She sipped tea, and as she shifted in her seat, one could see she wore studded leather armor of fine quality over her traveller’s clothes. It was low cut with a bit of frill, revealing an impressive decolletage that caught more than a few looks from passing male patrons of the inn. A signet ring winked on her finger as she lifted her cup.
Clarisse silently fumed to herself that her fortunes had brought her so low. She had five coppers in her purse at the moment, and little prospect of being able to pay the looming bill for her room and board from the innkeeper. He was already making subtle inquiries about it, and she was this close to putting a bolt in his throat.
It was all the fault of that damned Bretson de Winter, her late husband. Unfortunately she had been too late in getting him killed. His finances had been less sure than he had led her to believe, leaving her with little but his title, and at his death, his creditors were circling her like sharks in chummed waters. She needed financing quickly, and so had taken mercenary work with a few of the Masked Lords of Waterdeep. It had left her in a comfortable position, but nowhere near clear of her husband’s debtors.
Her last mission, however, had been to Baldur’s Gate, much too close to home for Clarisse -- formerly Riyoco Tesin of Baldur’s Gate -- and had gone terribly wrong. She had been recognized by a member of the Flaming Fists, the local mercenary guard of the Lower City, a man who had turned out to be her second husband Athos Comte -- the man who had nearly killed her, leaving her hanging for dead on a tree. She had thought him dead as well, as no trace of him had been found when she had passed through the little village in which they had lived a few happy years as husband and wife, until he discovered she was a branded thief.
Clarisse sighed and finished her tea before standing up. A rapier and hand crossbow with quiver hung at her side, a spare quiver attached to the pack at her feet.
“I will accompany you,” she spoke, her voice soft, mellifluous, an enticing, breathy whisper to stoke desire and intrigue. Even the way she stood, in an S pose, accentuated her feminine beauty as she pushed back her scarlet hood to reveal a beautiful blonde with blue eyes. “And I have not been abed for some hours, good Lord Mayor,” she chided Duncan Merriweather. The reward offer was little, but more than she currently had. At least she would be able to pay her bill and get out of this gods-forsaken backwater and back to Waterdeep. By Tymora, she missed her feather bed and a hot bath.
She pulled a scarlet half mask from a pocket inside her cloak and settled it over her eyes. “You may call me Milady.” She slipped the signet ring off her finger and into her bodice.
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OOC:
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Just a note: She rarely uses her noble name when working, unless it’s convenient. She is just Milady. It’s a kind of masked identity. Though this far from Waterdeep she isn’t taking too many pains to conceal it, hence wearing her ring.
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[sblock=Actions]
Action:
Move:.
Bonus Action:
Free Interaction:
Conditions:
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[sblock=Milady’s Mini Stats]
Inspiration: 0
AC: 15
HP: 12/12 HD: 1/1d10
Init: +3
PP: 10
PI: 12
Bolts: 40
Second Wind (1/R 1d10+1)
[/sblock]
