It never really ceased to amuse her, the names of taverns. Some were straightforward, which usually meant it was in a nicer neighborhood, decently clean, with food that gave a fairly higher chance of not giving its patrons food poisoning. Some were bawdy, indicating that it was likely to also act as an unofficial brothel. Less likely to be in a good neighborhood, though if it was in a decent spot, still frequented by stuck up merchants or lesser nobles. Some were a bit crude, which usually meant it was far from a good neighborhood, and usually filled with crooks. The less dangerous kinds, mind you. Generally a few rapists, murderers, thieves, swindlers. That sort.<br/><br/>But her favorite? Those were the ones with nonsensical names, such as Beefy Stu's Beefy Stews or The Drunken Owlbear (where the hosts often encouraged patrons to scream 'It's a hoot!') or the one she frequented now, The Skeletal Raven. One would think such a name would be an obvious draw for the criminal and destitute, but it was just a tavern as any other tavern. The front was pleasant, with a fire roaring to fill the floor with warmth, the smell of meat pies, sometimes a bit burnt, baking in the back, and ever the patron hollering for more of that sweet, sweet ale. Songs were screamed bawdily, often drowning out the sound of performers desperately trying to play over the din to earn a coin. There were two hags, who were regulars, squinting narrowly at each other as they clutch cards to their sagging chests, ignoring other patrons surrounding them as they bet over the crones' game. The windows were clean-ish, and the floor free of vomit, relatively. Plus, the barmaids weren't overtly dressed like easy whores, and always made sure they didn't smell of old sweat and fluids if they happened to participate in that sort of trade.<br/><br/>Of course, that wasn't why she enjoyed being there so much. Like a mascot, a raven perched high above in the rafters. It wasn't skeletal, like the tavern's namesake, but it was lanky and awkward. The owner didn't own it, it was just a wild bird, but one that seemed to have earned its place in this noisy, boisterous place. Best yet, it seemed to have taken a dislike to any sign of the guards, cawing and squawking like mad if it spotted any royal insignia. No one had ever trained the raven to do this, or at least no one claimed credit. Like most of the patrons, it merely seemed to have its own wariness and grudges to the royal enforcers.<br/><br/>She had become a regular, despite it being against all her training and habits. After all, she was retired. Or at least on a bit of a vacation until she set up her new practice. Not that it mattered. No one really remembered who she was. They certainly knew of her, of course. She always came in a bit before supper, took a seat right by a window to catch the last rays of light, enjoyed some ale, later replaced by tea that she brought on her own, a meat pie... Sometimes she joined the crones in their card game, other times, she may dance if the tavern had hired music for the night. But never could they really recall what she looked like, or even thought to question why. All they could remember was her name, Searu.<br/><br/>The patrons knew she had black hair, though whether it was black-brown or black-blue, wavy or straight they couldn't say. They couldn't recall the length of it either but knew it went past her shoulders. She was of average height and average weight, with a boyish figure, though still decidedly feminine. Searu had lightly tanned skin, perhaps a foreigner, though not from some far off country, probably just some neighboring kingdom. She had almond eyes with long lashes, often lined with black kohl, either a black or dark blue in color. Small, plush lips, often crooked into a lopsided smile, looking as if they'd just been bitten to a rosy color. Searu didn't wear dresses like other women did, but she said she traveled, so she preferred her simple tunic and leggings, a traveler's cloak and boots always present. She had a belt with pouches, though carried no visible weapon. And always, always did she smell of herbs. But most of all, she smelled of anemone, willow bark, and myrrh.<br/><br/>And she always spoke in a smooth, husky voice. Sometimes, it was quiet, barely able to capture any attention. Other times, it was hypnotic, and all one could focus on.<br/><br/>So when the raven began to hop up and down, screaming and cawing over the patrons, many had either slid out the door and onto the streets or had settled into their seats quietly to finish their drinks or meals. The raven itself swooped down and out the door, leaving its echoing cry as it disappeared into the alleyways. Searu stood up as well, waving to the tavern keep and pointing to the coins on her table. He waved her off and she grinned, moving to exit the building. Once on the street, she saw a group of men marching towards the tavern, all puffed up and walking in neat rows. With a chuckle, she walked into an alleyway, not even bothering with her hood.<br/><br/>"A bit obvious, don't you think?" she asked once she began to approach a shadowy intersection. "I certainly hope you're not the Spymaster. You'd have died eight times over in my country," she drawled as a hooded being stepped out. "Calm down now, I'll go with you. I wouldn't have bothered coming this way if that wasn't my intent," she soothed when the figure reached for its hip. They relaxed, and gestured with an arm for Searu to walk with them. "Now tell me, what could a spy for His Majesty be doing looking for me?"