<br/>War on the horizon.  A violent murder.  Suspicion and unrest.  What circumstance could possibly draw Sarita away at such a crucial time?<br/><br/>Feeding, of course.<br/><br/>Honestly, the Naga rather felt she had the better end of the deal.  Given her size, a three day sojourn every few months was more than sufficient to see her fed and contented, her meal digested.  In truth, she found it disgusting to watch just how often those around her ate.  Lycans, humans, even vampires had a preoccupation with food she found almost obscene.  In part, she found the things they prepared offensive, foul-smelling, and inedible.  Butchering, cutting, refining, cooking..  just the smell was enough to make her stomach clench unpleasantly.  To consume it multiple times in a day -- so much time, just for eating! -- was nothing short of atrocious.<br/><br/>Yet she never complained, nor voiced her opinions.  Indeed, a brave time or two the Naga found courage to nibble on their foods.  Though, each memory was poignantly painful now . . Still, she had suffered it, both the food and their habits.  They needed it, apparently, and enjoyed seasoning it to their tastes.  Sarita joined them, mustering a smile and sipping water while politely declining all else.  These days, hardly anyone offered her a taste of their foods anymore.  She was more than a little grateful.<br/><br/>Now, obviously exuberant and with distended belly, Sarita made her lone way from the breakline of a nearby forest, just at the edge of small town.  Inky tendril spiraled wildly from crown, framing high cheeks and spilling over shoulders, entwined by foliage and weighted by a thin layer of grime.  The apparent woman stood out not only by her darker coloring, but with her insistance for colorful native wear, now sullied and torn.  Deep burnt orange tunic was studded with dirt and, in places, snagged by bramble.  Loose trousers were worse, torn in places to flash scandalous snatches of lean legs.  Her 'modest' dupatta could have hidden the worst of the mess, yet it trailed hazardously behind her, barely hanging upon curled fingertips.<br/><br/>It might have bothered people, if they were not now so used to the sight, a regular occurence three or four times a year.  It was something of a sideshow by now, the usually humble and polite (sometimes pleasantly puzzled) advisor, now carefree and spirited.  They giggled good-naturedly and greeted Sarita before moving on with their lives, making note to mention this bit of idle gossip where they could.  To those that spoke, she offered a risen hand and angelic smile.  To those who merely showed their respect, the naga ignored, sometimes humming a tune, tongue e'er so often escaping to trail wetly across her lips.<br/><br/>This seemingly human gesture gave her a pause at one point, near gathered stalls of merchants.  She tilted her head, considering, towards a seller of fruits.  Apples and pears.  Gaze tinged amber shifted towards the castle before, with casual shrug, Sarita continued on her way.<br/><br/>Upon bypassing the tavern, the naga was halted again.  Tongue flicked thrice in swift succession before thoughtful expression was forged upon her countenance.  After slight internal debate, Sarita decided to linger, until the door swung open and a familiar patron exited to dusty street.<br/><br/>"Hail," she greeted in muted alto, smiling benignly towards his hands.  The naga tried desperately to recall his name, though she had little business with the stables given her nature.  Son of the stablemaster; that much she knew.  She knew, too, that the scent of his father's blood coated his hands beneath fragrance of soap.  "You are..  Endorel, yess?"