grumblyarcher
First Post
Master Shrike did not arrive in style. He was, after all, a 'master' and not a 'lord' or even a 'sir'. Worn traveling cloak, obviously patched tunic, boots that have definitely seen better days. You could almost mistake him for just another thirsty traveller if not for a few important features. First were the ears. Despite not looking particularly elven, or even half-elven for that matter Master Shrike possessed the long pointed ears of the fair folk. Of course, they were notched and the left ended abruptly about three-fourths of the way along its length. Trophies from his days among some less than gentle siblings.
The other was the carefully wrapped bundle thrown over his shoulder. Bulky and tied with rough twine, there was no point in lying about it, such a package rarely contained anything but weapons. The elf was merely being polite enough to not carry his chosen implements of violence openly. He either trusted the occupants of the tavern enough to not feel the need for openly carried weapons or he trusted his own skill at avoiding danger even more.
With a rolling stride, he picked his way across the room toward a booth. There was supposed to be someone waiting for him here with potential work, he was fuzzy on the details but he would look forward to anything that did not involve playing lackey to the local nobility for a few days. The nobles of Venza knew so little about just what the word meant that he could barely see any relation between them and the people that raised him. Anything that could get him out of Venza itself would be even better. Of course, with his saving running desperately low, anything was better than nothing.
The other was the carefully wrapped bundle thrown over his shoulder. Bulky and tied with rough twine, there was no point in lying about it, such a package rarely contained anything but weapons. The elf was merely being polite enough to not carry his chosen implements of violence openly. He either trusted the occupants of the tavern enough to not feel the need for openly carried weapons or he trusted his own skill at avoiding danger even more.
With a rolling stride, he picked his way across the room toward a booth. There was supposed to be someone waiting for him here with potential work, he was fuzzy on the details but he would look forward to anything that did not involve playing lackey to the local nobility for a few days. The nobles of Venza knew so little about just what the word meant that he could barely see any relation between them and the people that raised him. Anything that could get him out of Venza itself would be even better. Of course, with his saving running desperately low, anything was better than nothing.
Seeing a customer, a barmaid stops working on making place-settings in her little out-of-the-way spot at the bar. She slides off her stool and saunters over, in no particular hurry, throwing a towel over her shoulder as she walks, as if to emphasize the nearly empty nature of the inn. Her simple, utilitarian clothes indicate little wealth--spent on clothing, anyway. Smiling to the newcomer, she greets him, 
A young woman steps into the inn, sheathing her rapier as she does. The silvery weapon makes a click as it finally comes to rest fully in its scabbard as she scans the room, green eyes adjusting after having been outside in the sun. Walking to the bar directly, she takes a seat and fiddles with the damaged sleeve of her white poet's shirt, marred with reddish stains. She sighs dejectedly, and finally speaks. 
Being addressed breaks Charity out of her reverie and she turns to Qalabash to consider his question.
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