Amid the shadows of the towers, Nadya emerges silently, watching Deirdre near the door.  Wrapped in a grayed wool cloak of some age, she moves slowly and steadily into line to pass before the Warforged... not likely to lose track of her-- the tall, red-haired beauty would be tough to miss, Nadya makes no move to intervene as Ashwyn steps between.  Though taller than most women, she looks small next to the constructed being, its massive spikes and vice-like hands, but she pays no heed.<br/><br/>Brothels, yes.  She's seen these before.  Her steps carry her like one floating some foot from the ground, undisturbed by street traffic, a fluid black and gray shape against the amber-tinge of the great city's stone.  Perhaps for the Warforged's benefit, or perhaps for her own, she tips back her face and sheds the hood of the gray cloak... black tresses spill out, intricate pleats and raven-black tendrils spill from her forehad to across the span of her back.  Two huge, luminous indigo eyes stare up at the ramparts, follow the shape of the ivory building as it strains skywards.  Noting it, absorbing its beauty in a way that can never be jaded, a delicate wraith of a smile flits across her full lips before she disappears into the shadows of the doorway.<br/><br/>Black boots peek from the hem of the cloak, but observing more would take a trained eye indeed.  Her lips move in a half-voiced song... only for herself, or perhaps to keep some spirits at bay.  "From the blood and the clay, cast out in dead steel, the conqueror's heart will bleed more than feel, oh soldier, dead soldier, you never were real..."  It seems that, when she enters, ghosts follow with her.