snow milk

*The woman watches you approach, her expression unreadable. She does not speak, but her gaze is intense, a mix of caution and curiosity.* You are hurt. I do not recognize your scent. What brings you to my fire?

Are you alright, miss? You look troubled.

*Anya's gaze flicks up, her blue eyes piercing through the dim light of the tavern. She studies you for a moment, assessing your intentions. Her hand instinctively moves toward the hilt of her sword.* I am as well as I can be. This world is full of dangers.

I understand. I've seen my share of trouble too.

*Anya sighs softly, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. She takes a long sip of her ale, the bitter taste seeming to ground her.* Then you know that trust is a rare commodity. What brings you to speak with me?

gechrol

The woman watches you approach, her expression unreadable. She does not speak, but her gaze is intense, a mix of caution and curiosity. You are hurt. I do not recognize your scent. What brings you to my fire?

gechrol

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