They say that discretion is the better part of valor. And by that standard, Nemera Leath was a particularly valorous individual.<br/><br/><i>Just don’t call me ‘hero’.</i>Nem had never had much use for busybodies like the Harpers or the Grey Hands, always poking their noses into everyone else’s business an the most inopportune moments.<br/><br/>At this particular inopportune moment, Nem was valiantly surveying the situation in a particular little tavern from a wall-side table. Nothing so gauche as a shadowy alcove or, gods forbid, a nook. Or, for that matter, obvious. First place someone would look for those up to no good. And lets face it - being up to actual good rarely paid the bills.<br/><br/>Not that Nemera wasn’t on her best behavior. Or at least a reasonable approximation thereof. This wasn’t exactly her normal stomping grounds, and the Hand might take exception if any major marks went down, or if someone dropped a load of goods on a local fence without what passes for credentials around this place.<br/><br/><i>Yartar. Yaaar-taar. Sounds like a lovechild between orc and frog.</i><br/><br/>It was, in Nemera’s opinion, a particularly poor name for a city. Luskan, Silverymoon, Neverwinter, and of course Waterdeep – these names had a euphonic note of class and civilization to them. Even further south, they had names like Scornubel and Calimport. Mulmaster. Arabel. Names that didn’t sound like someone had just taken a map and jotted down the first thing that popped into their head. And what happens to cities with déclassé appellations? Phlan, Yhaunn, Tantras. Cataclysm and catastrophe.<br/><br/>But at the moment, this particular city seemed to be between bouts of interdimensional rifts or arcane plagues. At least, Nem hoped so. This disappearing people thing was probably more bandits and less extraplanar infiltration.<br/><br/><a class="link link--external" href="https://i.postimg.cc/d3zVWD55/Nem-Plain-Black.png" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">She was dressed plainly</a>– to avoid too much attention – but effectively – in darks and blacks in case disappearing into alleyways and over rooftops became necessary. The style of her outfit was common and non-ostentatious. If not for the absence of frayed patches and beer stains, Nem might pass for a conservatively dressed and off-duty barmaid. At least, if you ignored the color scheme.<br/><br/>She had been – valiantly, of course – considering the various adventuring bands that seemed to be filling the tavern, when two of the groups came to inevitable confrontation. There were two women and the bar’s stripper – honestly, Nem hadn’t thought One Foot in the Boat to be that kind of place, but you never knew in these boat-centric towns. Sailors were a colorful lot, after all. But anyway, those three were facing off against a couple of bigger greenskins with their presumably hired beanpole caster.<br/><br/><i>Not a particularly fair fight.</i><br/><br/>Nemera had to do something. And that something was to begin eying the half-orcs and their pet spellflinger for anything easily stolen while they were distracted. The Hand wouldn’t mind a little casual enrichment, surely.<br/><br/><i>Or at least, they’d be less likely to notice, what with everyone focused on the confrontation.</i><br/><br/>And that was more or less the same thing.