Amelia Craft was feeling pretty good about herself. She had just finished assisting a group of Mercenaries with a job, and it had gone along splendidly. At least for the most part, until the leader of the little band had declined her the payment that was rightfully hers. A few very long sentences later, the burly looking, but small minded man had been so confused that he actually counted out more money than he had originally intended in his haste to get her (and especially her mouth) quickly out of his presence. This was, of course, how she came to be in the possession of a nice little pouch of money, which she had tucked away safely in a place that thieves typically could not access. This was also how she came trotting through the streets of Praven on the back of her mare, looking for a good place to rest and enjoy the fruits of her hard work.<br/><br/>Craft was a good rider, if nothing else. She may not be able to fight and kill quite as well as others, but she could ride circles around most common folk. This was due, in part, to her lovely and intelligent young horse. Who she was always loathe to let out of her sight for any length of time. Rather than just leaving the horse outside, she took the time to find a nice stable and make sure that she was fed and well taken care of, before continuing through town on foot and looking for a nice place to get some food.<br/><br/>She ultimately ended up at the tavern, which wasn't too far from the stables, and she thought it was as good a place as any to pick up some food, rest, and listen in to see if there were any interesting new jobs that she could pick up. However, she did seem a bit out of place in a tavern like this, normally full of grungy older men and grizzled mercenaries with thick beards and lots of chest hair, she was just a small young thing dressed in robes of deep forest green and leathers of a light earthy brown, looking crisp and clean and proper. Whether this was stupidity, or confidence on her part, it was impossible to know. However, some people were bound to recognize her by now. Craft, master tactician, who had never failed to lead a group to victory. If she was brought over to one side in a conflict, it was almost certain that the forces under her guidance would emerge victorious.<br/><br/>She didn't seem overly intent to go up to anyone just about yet. She went up to the bar, requested some food and some beer, and then chose the least crowded long table in the place and took a seat for herself, eager to fill up her belly and have a nice relaxing sit before she got involved in anything. She also wasn't assenine or dense enough to swarm the first person looking to hire. Craft was in no hurry. She could wait. In all likelihood, anyone looking to hire mercenaries or volunteers would come and talk to her before they left. And if they did not, then it was their loss.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>