"What about that one, eh?" the voice was slurred, raspy, as the man leaned over to his companion.<br/><br/>The two men had been seated at this same bar, usually on the same stools, at least three evenings a week for longer than most could remember. They were both hardened men and jaded by the violence they'd seen in their long years. As he spoke, the man nodded toward a woman seated at a table in the corner. His companion turned to look in the direction indicated, then scoffed.<br/><br/>"Nah, man... that's the merchant. Ya don't hold yer liquor like ya used to. If ya were sober ya'd recognize 'er. Don't ya remember?"<br/><br/>"Ah think Ah'd remember a figure loike tha'... look at them legs. She don't wear dresses like most dames. Look at them legs..."<br/><br/>At that moment, the woman in question looked up from the book she was focused on to give the whispering men a hard look. Her eyes were intense, and a deep, cold color of green remeniscent of an emerald. She didn't peer at the men for longer than a second, but her gaze was complete, missing nothing.<br/><br/>"Its not 'er legs I'd be worried about,  you drunkard. Its 'er 'ands. I've 'eard rumors about her. They say she's dangerous. There are even rumors of..." ge spoke in a hushed tone, turning to look at the woman as he did, "...black magic."<br/><br/>For a moment, they both just watched her. She looked to be no more than 20 years old, face still slightly rounded with the residue of childhood. Her bearing was far from innocent, posture tense, eyes watchful. She gave an aura of instinct, honed by experience. She was indeed, as mentioned, dressed in a scuffed and travel worn pair of leather leggings as opposed to the cotton dresses worn by most women. Her boots were heavy, tough, and slightly worn out. Hanging from the belt at her waist was a short leather sheath, from which protruded the handle of a large work knife. her tunic was a heavy fabric, with sleeves reaching to her wrists despite the hot weather, only one button at her collar left open. Her hair was long, black as obsidian, and slightly wavy. Most of her hair was tied back in a long braid that hung down her back, though stray locks hung in soft curls around her face, causing her to frequently tuck them behind her ears.<br/><br/>She kept her gaze on the book sitting on the table before her, focused on the page with a frown. Only those who walked past her table could see that it was a ledger, a book of financial records. Columns of numbers filled the page, which she frowned at repeatedly. Lifting the quill from the ink bottle, she tapped off the excess ink, then began adding numbers to the page, referring to a scrap of paper she held in her hand often. When she finished adding the numbers, she seemed to ponder something, lifting the mug of ale to her lips and drinking deeply. Her fingers moved to finger something hidden beneath the collar of her shirt absentmindedly as she gazed off at nothing for a long moment.<br/><br/>"She's a merchant? She don't look like no merchant. More like a mercenary," whispered the first man. With a chuckle, he tipped back on his stool to drink deeply from the tankard in his hand. Swaying on the stool, he reached out to catch himself by gripping the bar.<br/><br/>"Aye... sells her wares out of a cart. Normal stuff mos'ly, cloth, herbs, and the like. But I 'eard she also places... special orders... to a select clientele, if you catch my meanin'."<br/><br/>Just then, a man strode into the tavern and stood by the door, peering over the inhabitants. His gaze finally located the woman and stopped there, watching her. She never looked up, but as he came in, she closed the book twisted the cap onto the ink bottle, and stowed her belongings in the large pack resting beside her chair. Rising from her chair, she strode to the door, then through it, without ever looking at the man who'd just entered. The stranger turned and followed her out the door only a moment after she'd left.