<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/VoMy9La.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Allie<br/><strong>Race and Occupation:</strong>Half-elf country girl troublemaker<br/><strong>Location &amp; Time:</strong>Country roads, trying to take someone home to the place they belong.  Mid-day.<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Open<br/><hr/>Making note of an armed, but solitary, man approaching as she gathered her belongings-- tying her short-boots by their laces to drape them around her neck-- she at first felt a flush of shame at being seen publicly in such a filthy state, but that embarrassment gave way, slower than it should have, to a gradual understanding that, this far from the glade, she could actually be -in danger- if he had hostile intentions.  Less-than-scrupulous types had made their unfortunate way to the druid circle's territory before, causing trouble and the like, and were often dealt with to a degree appropriate to their crime.  Or, at least, what<i>seemed</i>appropriate at the time.  But... well... no spirit folk, no swamp-fox rangers, no inner-circle sisters with their lightning-spells all shapeshifting into bears and the like...<br/><br/>So her eyes were wide enough to see the whites clear around when he drew close enough to speak comfortably, but she didn't react further-- she told herself, in that moment, that it was because he hadn't drawn his weapon.<i>Sounds plausible.</i><br/><br/><i>'Filthy,' he hissed, his nose wrinkling.</i><br/><br/>She drew her head back very slightly at that, then crossed her arms over her breasts defensively, as if to silently answer.<i>Well, what do you expect?</i><br/><br/>At his offered water-skin, she starts to wave it off and fumble for an excuse, her mother's meager advice fluttering up in her mind and whispering that all outsiders were murderers, robbers, rapists, rabbit-teasers, hog-fuckers, et cetera and (worse still) combinations thereof.  But she hesitates, breathing a sudden reassurance into her lungs, and nods gently instead.  "That's very kind of you.  Thank you."<br/><br/>She reaches hesitantly forth and accepts it, and assumes that he -does- mean for her to drink it, not to bathe herself with it (which she might prefer) based on the portion offered.  Nevertheless, she uncorks it and lifts it hesitantly, watching his eyes for any warning she's about to go astray as she lifts it carefully, then begins to take an ample, but not indulgent, drink before replacing the cap and returning it.<br/><br/>"I apologize for..." she starts to gesture at the mess, but it's too all-encompassing and, in the end, she simply shrugs and waves her hands in a couple of circles about herself.  "The<i>state</i>of things here.  But it's under control now."  At that, she reaches into her simple traveling bag and, with very little rummaging, produces a skinning knife, the belted scabbart of which she returns to her waist before slipping the blade from its sheath, then brushing dried mud dust from her fingers and, with the enthusiasm of a mad butcher, carving a wedge from the side of the melon in her arms and prising it loose with the hooked tip of the blade.  "Do the honors?" she asked as she proffered the melon, sliced portion extended slightly from the main body of the fruit.