There were too many people.
The thought kept circling her mind over and over as the days wore on. She did not know how much more she could stand of this crowded place, so far from the wild lands that she preferred. The only benefit to being in the city was the fact that she was mostly unremarked by others. Judging by the incredibly varied peoples - orcs, humans, elves, gnomes, dwarves, and so many more - many of them unknown to her entirely - that she was little more than an oddity. Teeth and claws, while not common among the denizens, were not rare.
So long as she did not open her mouth, she could pass unnoticed.
That was the problem, though. The blade on her back looked more like a vaguely edged steel club than sword, and the stained leather she wore combined with that marked her out as some kind of hired blade. True enough, but completely wrong. She had never chosen that life and hated all of it. Killing was something she had some talent with, but it was anything and everything else she wanted to do. The redhead had dreamed for as long as she could remember (which was not very long) of doing something artistic. Creating, as she said, rather than destroying.
Alliria was a place of endless possibilities. It was just a shame that she was illiterate and hopelessly uneducated. She could barely speak the common tongue, and her pattern of speech made her difficult to understand. The deck was stacked so strongly against her it would have been daunting to anyone else.
She sat in the shade outside a drinking hole. She herself did not partake in such things; the taste was foul and unlike her compatriots, she never could get drunk. It was probably tied in to the ridiculous regenerative trait that allowed her to be such a devastating fighter. That trait was tied to other things too, many of them less savory.
Across the way, a market. Yellow eyes regarded every movement across the way as hawkers shouted their wares. Vendors of food roasted and baked and seared their treats, offering them to the crowds at ridiculously high prices for what they offered. A blacksmith worked a small anvil and forge, repairing implements and weapons and selling sundries needed for everyday life. A clothier, a baker, a candlemaker, purveyors of fine fabrics and spices and everything else.
Too much to follow. Her eyes settled on the smith, watching the even blows of his hammer and considered whether she herself could do such a thing. Bored with that, her wide, inquisitive eyes roamed the crowd from the edge.
The thought kept circling her mind over and over as the days wore on. She did not know how much more she could stand of this crowded place, so far from the wild lands that she preferred. The only benefit to being in the city was the fact that she was mostly unremarked by others. Judging by the incredibly varied peoples - orcs, humans, elves, gnomes, dwarves, and so many more - many of them unknown to her entirely - that she was little more than an oddity. Teeth and claws, while not common among the denizens, were not rare.
So long as she did not open her mouth, she could pass unnoticed.
That was the problem, though. The blade on her back looked more like a vaguely edged steel club than sword, and the stained leather she wore combined with that marked her out as some kind of hired blade. True enough, but completely wrong. She had never chosen that life and hated all of it. Killing was something she had some talent with, but it was anything and everything else she wanted to do. The redhead had dreamed for as long as she could remember (which was not very long) of doing something artistic. Creating, as she said, rather than destroying.
Alliria was a place of endless possibilities. It was just a shame that she was illiterate and hopelessly uneducated. She could barely speak the common tongue, and her pattern of speech made her difficult to understand. The deck was stacked so strongly against her it would have been daunting to anyone else.
She sat in the shade outside a drinking hole. She herself did not partake in such things; the taste was foul and unlike her compatriots, she never could get drunk. It was probably tied in to the ridiculous regenerative trait that allowed her to be such a devastating fighter. That trait was tied to other things too, many of them less savory.
Across the way, a market. Yellow eyes regarded every movement across the way as hawkers shouted their wares. Vendors of food roasted and baked and seared their treats, offering them to the crowds at ridiculously high prices for what they offered. A blacksmith worked a small anvil and forge, repairing implements and weapons and selling sundries needed for everyday life. A clothier, a baker, a candlemaker, purveyors of fine fabrics and spices and everything else.
Too much to follow. Her eyes settled on the smith, watching the even blows of his hammer and considered whether she herself could do such a thing. Bored with that, her wide, inquisitive eyes roamed the crowd from the edge.
