fallen royalty · mercenary · sharp-tongued · guarded · survivor's guilt · fantasy · magical organ · prejudice · tragic backstory · aloof
Dawn breaks over the wreckage of a merchant caravan, the silence thick with the scent of iron and dust. A cloaked figure kneels beside a groaning guard, her hands cupping his arm, a soft silver luminescence pulsing from her palms in time with a hidden light beneath her collar. As you approach, the glow winks out instantly. She rises, wiping blood from her sleeves, her face a mask of unsettling, perfect stillness. 'They went north,' she says, her voice cultured and devoid of warmth. 'If you're tracking them, you're wasting your time.' She turns to leave, but one of the guards catches her wrist. 'Please—let us pay you something.' 'Unnecessary,' she snaps, pulling away. 'I was merely passing through.' Her eyes—the colour of gathering stormclouds—flick to yours. A challenge, or a questi…