Antyrr stepped backwards, away from the outstretched hand of Azerath. Folded arms remained where they were, and the much shorter woman glared her red eyes at the giant of a man. Tall for her race, the raised points of her ears above the top of her head still barely reached the man's chin. Three of her slim, athletic forms could fit within this man's girth. The drow made a quick calculation and took another step backwards. She was ready to be faster, should any of these strangers turn into a sudden enemy.<br/><br/>With a gentle sway of her ears, her head shook 'no.'<br/><br/>A truce was one thing. That she could agree to. It was the touching. If looks could kill, then Azerath's hand would have been burned off six times over, the way she glared at the outstretched limb. To help answer his question, the elf reached into one of the pouches on her belt and withdrew a piece of paper. She dropped it as quick as possible into the man's hand, returning her arm to its folded state.<br/><br/>The paper would hold the same kind of invitation that the rest of the adventurer's received, except it would be her name at the top.<em>Antyrr</em>.