Uria began pacing again. She'd been unable to settle all morning and had been swapping between pacing, sharpening her knives, and generally fidgeting. She had her cloak clutched tightly around her and was quietly cursing the morning chill under her breath when the others began speaking. Uria suddenly stood very still, hand on the pommel of her sword and listened intently.<br/><br/>Uria slammed her left fist against her right shoulder twice in way of greeting and said "Uria. Sharpsword of the red sands. Kobolds die well. Make good prey."<br/><br/>She left it at that, her case being made in full, and allowed her cloak to return to it's natural position over her shoulder. She had a purpose again, a task to complete and prey to kill. Nothing, not the cold, the strange people around her or even the<em>green</em>ness of these lands, bothered her now. She checked the straps on her less-than-warm armour, gently applied her warpaint across her eyes and made ready to leave in whatever direction these 'civilized' people decided.