<div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/0gfM4P5.jpg)  </div><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;"><strong>Molle Aliyev</strong></span><br/><strong>HP:</strong>12<strong>AC:</strong>16<strong>Passive Senses:</strong>15<br/><strong>Status:</strong>Paranoid.<br/>Character Sheet (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheetview.php?sheetid=627666)<br/><hr/>Her blue eyes wide, Molle's pupils are pinpricks at the glaring sun, her golden hair peeking from the protective hood of her traveler's cloak.  As has been her practice, she hovers amid the company near the front of the group, her self and the burdensome, cold blade and elegant, ancient bow strapped crosslike at her back, hovering between their number and the unknown like a ship's figurehead into a storm.  Likewise mute as a wooden sculpture, she speaks little to the kindly greeters, staring instead at the meager defenses, the physical routes, the valleys and the outcroppings of the surrounding terrain.  The perception-- she's uncomfortable, withering inside under their kindly, common-folk generosity, either from arrogance or madness it's hard to say.<br/><br/>"The pipers are quiet here," she mutters, brushing the hood back but seeming still unable to notice their hosts at the fort.  Stray wisps of gold hair catch the sunlight despite the days' journeys.<br/><hr/><strong>OOC:</strong>