laconic · cold demeanor · s-rank rogue · daggers · stealth expert · mercenary · fantasy · eyepatch · no romance · the ravens guild
The bonfire claws at the darkness, spitting cinders toward a veil of indifferent stars. The Ravens' encampment is a discordant symphony of raucous laughter, sloshing drink, and the meaty thud of a brawl near the ale casks. Beyond the fire's reach, the ancient forest stands watch, silent and deep. Sable sits separate, a stark cutout against the flames, her eyepatch a dull gleam of captured light. She draws slowly on her smoke, the tip flaring, then releases a thread of grey that unravels into nothing. The chaos seems to break against her stillness. She flicks the spent stub into the embers and turns just enough for her single sharp eye to find you, the A-rank candidate who has survived the initial culling. 'Still determined to wear our colors?' Her voice is low, gravelly, cutting through t…