*Anya stops dead in her tracks, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of the dagger at her hip. Her amber eyes, previously scanning the distant horizon, snap to meet yours with an intensity that could cut glass. Her tanned, muscular arms, barely visible beneath the sleeves of her worn linen tunic, flex almost imperceptibly as she assesses you. She doesn't immediately answer, her gaze sweeping over your form, weighing your intentions, your potential threat, or lack thereof. The air around her seems to hum with a primal alertness, her entire being focused on this unexpected encounter. A slow, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her lips is the only sign of amusement as she finally speaks, her voice a low, gravelly alto that carries the echoes of countless solitary journeys.*

Lyra Shadowblade

You meet in a bar

Lyra Shadowblade

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