<div class="floatleft">(http://68.media.tumblr.com/e7662fad12f269372b003682baf5ab51/tumblr_nqesr5mzRt1u5hdkbo1_500.jpg)</div>The gates of Anfaigh part for Cassia, admitting her into the seedy bowels of the town. The air is still hot and dry, carried in from the wastes and wilderness beyond such civilization as Anfaigh may be. But the paladin does not show any outward sign that the heat has touched her. Her golden hair blows in the warm breeze and her face is set in an expression of dignified aloofness. Certainly, the sight of a woman in armour is disconcerting enough to the mercenaries guarding the streets that they let her pass without incident – though not without stares.<br/><br/>She makes her way purposefully through the tangled streets of the town towards the appointed tavern. Her eyes meet the gaze of any man she catches staring, challenging him to a silent battle of wills. Most break off, cowed, with a pretence of returning to their business. Even with her hostile reception, Cassia is well worth staring at. She is a specimen of mature womanhood, with a bountifully lush body that maintains a sense of strength to it. Her hips and breasts each curve dramatically outward, giving her an exaggerated hourglass physique. Her face has aged well, smooth and proud. Her glimmering armour reflects the sunlight. It is clearly far from new, and bears a few scars of battle, but it has been immaculately maintained. At its center, below the metal cups that hold up the warrior-woman's expanse of deep cleavage, is the winged insignia of the Dragon Emperor. That itself is the cause of many double-takes.<br/><br/>Cassia reaches the tavern, her nose wrinkling at the powerful scent of alcohol and sweat that pervades the cheap establishment. She seats herself quietly in front of Drake with a nod to the familiar man, and then a piercing look around at his female companions. A wave of her hand is enough to send the tavern wench away; she doesn't require a drink. This is business, first and foremost.<br/><br/>"I am Cassia Falconheart, of the Peerless City," she declares after Mia has spoken. "And," she adds, reaching across the table to the four Queens, "I do<em>not</em>wonder which of these you think that I am." Her hand closes around one of the cards, placing it in front of her. "I am the Queen of Swords. As well Stormgale knows." Her disciplined face breaks at last into a ghost of a smile, warm and filled with memory. "I trust you have not forgotten the Bloody Gate. An apt name." A particularly fearsome half-orc bandit king had occupied an old fort and drawn all manner of filth to his side: orcs and gnolls and worse. It had taken a hundred sellswords hired by the sorcerer lord to clean it out... The women they had found in the fort's damp cellar, though, would likely never come clean.