“You had better be who I think you are lest you lose your head," Kaldia called. "It is," Amaranth's muffled voice drifted from the other side of the door, a note of mirth in her tone. Stepping aside, the fighter pulled the latch, allowing the other woman to enter.
"Mistress.." "Do you like calling me that?" "I do." "Why?" "It's a pleasure when it is deserved."
Though his step was light, Stentis quickly found that that which had served him so well on streets of cobbles or hard-packed earth made little difference in the spongey marshland terrain. No matter how sparsely he set his feet, the soft soles of his boots would quickly sink into the noxious soil. This annoyed him greatly.
With the wind rushing in his ears and the smell of the swamplands below him strong in his nostrils, Stentis, Enforcer of the Mentrethis Thieves Guild, slowly made his descent, the massive raven he rode guiding itself towards the bleak landscape below.
“No,” was his immediate thought. “Not only am I to break my oath of chastity, but with my own sister?!”
Just as the full darkness of nightfall enclosed around them, Lystra and Belt made the gates of the Flaming Fist Fort. Despite seeing no sign of continued pursuit for the majority of their flight, they had not slowed their mounts, fearful that their foe may have some unseen trick up their sleeve.
Alessia watched from the balcony of the castle as the long column of victorious soldiers filed through the city gates far below. At their head, she knew, though she couldn’t see him clearly from her vigil, rode her brother, Marius.
With a merry jaunt, the elven ranger, known to most only as Dew, entered the townstead of Tallow just as the sun-kissed the western horizon, sending fountains of citrus and strawberry across the sky. Clothed from head to toe in tight fitted, emerald attire one would customarily associate with her ilk, she made a drastic contrast to the townsfolk who yet trundled down the town’s main, and only, avenue, clothed as they were in drab shades of grey, brown, or burgundy. Despite this distinction, she was met with naught but hearty greetings at her passing, marking the familiarity with which the town held her, and she them, for she returned each hail with an equally exuberant one of her own.
n the early morning hours, Syla crept from her bed. Among her elf-kin around her not one stirred, and though she knew that her footfalls would wake none, still softly did she tread. The tribe that she was staying with currently was a migratory one and, though she was not one of them, she knew that they would judge her for her actions that morn should they discover her motives.
On a clouded, windy night, down a dingy backstreet in the City of San Francisco, a lone woman strode boldly and alone. Her low-heeled steps, emitted by knee-highs, crunching audibly upon loose gravel and discarded needles. The sounds magnified against the looming brick walls on either side. Rats, roaches, and other such vermin scurried from her path and those cast-off peoples who dwelled there on the ever-shrinking fringes of society shrunk away, covering their faces so as not to catch her eye.