In the morning light, Sian walks the docks and searches for the first civilian ship she'd ever stand upon.   As obtrusive as any legionare with no standard or station, she picks her way among dockhands, crates, foraging gulls and coils of rope, drawing stares as she moves or the occasional scoff.  Soldiers rarely come to this area, as their transports-- much like hers in the legion-- had been galleys, ram-tipped and armed with ballistas, bowmen, and catapults scorched black by incindiary payloads.<br/><br/>So with her scuffed and dented armor-- pieced together from fallen foes, confiscated pieces and remnants-- Sian moves like a horse on its way to stable.  The oversized quiver on her back bristles with javelins, but her massive shield and long-browed helment are her only real comfort-- both pieces had protected her life in months past, and now she was glad to have them-- the massive shield moving with her like a privacy screen, a portable wall to shut out the stares that sought her sun-bronzed skin-- glistening with coconut oil and fine-ground silica-- and her long, single-braided blonde ponytail.  In spite of it, the salty air speaks of promise-- of a future to be found away from this land of corrupt officials and wage-slaves.<br/><br/>Her sandaled feet come to rest together-- she has to exert effort not to snap to attention as she waits, as old habits die hard.  She reaches into her belt for the folded square of parchment, its wax seal cracked and chipped and cool to the touch of her thumb.  She still remembers the sly glare of the man who gave it to her-- a look that spoke volumes of mingled attraction and pity and revulsion for one of her station.. of course, when she'd met him her face was far from pretty.<br/><br/>She was no beauty queen-- she endured broken bones, cuts, arrow-wounds and even a hammer-blow to the cheek (she was still missing a couple back teeth, but she'd recovered solidly and learned to cherish her shield's weight)-- but she she certianly drew her share of flirtation and harrassment for a young woman of her age and features.  On the night she'd met the Baron, however, she was a fright to look upon-- her face ruddy with drying blood and her shirt half-torn from her body, with two burly heaps of muscle and hair lying immobile on a flophouse floor.  The Baron had investigated the noise of her struggle with them, and had nearly been in time to be a hero, but by the time someone had opened the door, Sian was sitting on top of a huge man's chest, blood stippling the walls in gobs and flecks as she railed again and again into his face with a flat iron.<i>'YOU DON't', she screamed between ragged breaths, 'TAKE MONEY,' and again with the slick black triangle of cold iron, 'FROM A LI'L BOY!'</i><br/><br/>She didn't know if she should thank or curse him two days later when the letter arrived.  She couldn't remember receiving a personal letter by delivery in her life, and seeing her name spelled out in a gentleman's elegant script was much different from seeing it stenciled next to an "x" on a company roster.<br/><br/>At the ship, she steps up to the half orc, plants her shield, and gives him the parchment with its broken wax disk facing up.  Once he steps aside, she'll board.