<strong>Yulia of Pendle</strong><br/>The<del>Wizard</del>Witch - Lvl 1<br/><strong>HP:</strong>16/16<br/><strong>XP:</strong>0/8<br/><strong>Conditions:</strong>None<br/><hr/>Yulia had never been one to let a hard road get her down.  While the rest of the caravan had moped and complained beneath the rain and wind, she'd somehow contrived to seem untouched by the weather the whole way.  It was amazing how much of an effect something as simple as a straight back and a smile could have.  The act had been enough to keep the wagoneers from speaking more than two consecutive words to her--which was how she preferred it.  Of course, it did nothing to stop them from glaring and muttering when they thought she couldn't hear, but that was an occupational hazard.  Their kind were never happy to have her along for a ride.<br/><br/>The constant attacks, though, those she could've done without.  She supposed it was foolish, given where they were headed, but she'd never have Seras or Vafi's stomach for violence.<br/><br/>Her outward cheer redoubled as they passed the boarding house threshold.  As much of a relief as hot food and a proper bath were, though, the fight at the pass gnawed at her the whole night.  Of all the things they could've run into, didn't it just have to be a<em>wizard</em>.  That was just what she needed, some high-and-mighty scholarly prick hovering around, no doubt determined to find some opportunity to set his cohorts after her on some trumped-up dark arts charge.  It wasn't until she noticed her bathwater getting cold that Yulia realized how long she'd been sitting there scowling about it.<br/><br/>Work was work, but the sooner they could clean up this place and get out, the better.<br/><hr/>Yulia arrived downstairs with her customary cavernous yawn and stretch.  Any last dust of sleep was quickly blown away as Isma accosted her; she met the mask with her usual half-smirk, but another stone settled in her gut.  The fool was one she'd kept her distance from especially on the road--she wasn't in the habit of trusting people in masks.  Seras, perhaps, would notice Yulia scooting her chair a little closer to her at the table.  She wondered what it said about her that having a Warsworn within arm's reach made her feel safer.  Over her bowl of the same watery porridge she swore every inn in the world drew from the same giant pot, she made a mental note to keep a close eye on Isma.  Sooner or later, that mask had to come off.<br/><br/>She kept her silence under Gerald's glares while Seras negotiated, firing back with a grin and a flutter of the eyelashes--that ought to put him off-balance.  These sorts of conversations were best left to the one with a literal lifetime's experience of mercenary work.  Falling in with the others as they left the hall, she fought not to laugh as Isma took a rather more direct approach to the wizard, wondering for a moment whether she hadn't been needlessly paranoid before--it was a poor fool who one could relax around, after all.  As always and rightly, paranoia won out, but still, she could appreciate the gesture.  "Oh, leave the boy alone already," she chided.  "We all want the same thing here, to help these poor, unfortunate folk.  I'm sure we'll be the best of friends."  She flashed Gerald another grin and batted her eyelashes.  It was probably a mistake, riling him up any further, but she just couldn't resist such a perfect chance.<br/><br/>Her heart sank again when Isma announced her plan to investigate the graveyard--it was obviously the right place to start, and she'd been hoping the fool would head elsewhere--but they had a job to do.  "Well, we can't have you wandering over there by yourself with who-knows-what about," she teased.  "But give it an hour.  I need to get a few things ready."  Nine times out of ten, talk like this proved to be nothing but a wild dog digging up graves for food, but that wasn't a risk she wanted to take without the full strength of her powers brought to bear.