Esme

The goliath before them is shrouded in shadow from above, and firelight paints his axe gleaming red. Whatever courage these men might have mustered crumbles. They flee into the darkness, calling back,

'Sod this, then - we'll find you, witch!'

She would gladly see them all bleed, for how they've hunted her down like an animal... but perhaps not at the cost at one willing to offer his protection like this.

The magic at her fingertips releases, and a moment of Fate turns at her guidance. The clouds cover the moon just so.

'She's... she's a, uh....'

Her eyes rise with him, as does every pair surrounding them. Their leader tries to recover his will, and in that instant, she sees two paths before her adversary - fight or flight. All it would take is a little nudge to set the lot running.

She hates them.

If it exists. The barbarians do enjoy a tall–

rather, an...exaggerated story."

It would do her well, she thinks, to adjust her expectations of this conversation significantly. No metaphors from here on - or homophones, apparently.

"No, never. There's rumors of one up the mountain, but the roads here see little enough traffic and trade. It may have turned its gaze elsewhere.

'Wouldn't be so sympathetic if I was you, either, she's a blasted [mage.]'

Here, in this harsh, superstitious land, people spit the word as if referring to vermin, or worse.

Approaching openly like this, they must yet have faith in numbers to badger and threaten so formidable a man... and so uncaring a goat, she supposes.

'Black hair, pale skin, a damned twig of a woman.'

Another, one of the two that now circled them, chimes in.

A good sign towards his intentions - enough that she shifts her attention from him to listen only for the movements of two of the crew. They move without a word, pointedly circling the campsite.

This faction, whoever they are, leans heavily on the element of surprise, in her experience.

||finally made a real bio

She's lucky she'd waited on her next sip, or Verone might well be wearing it. She lets out an unladylike bark of laughter, covering it quickly behind her hand.

"I didn't. But it's Esme. And you, Serah...?"

||The court mage of her town, Greigor. He scooped her up when the templars caught her in the midst of the fifth blight, since the Ferelden Circle had been destroyed. He now holds her phylactery.

He's also just about the only person she trusts and who she confides in when her world goes to shit.

She watched the brew slosh forth from the tankard with an amused quirk of her brow. Clean them, indeed.

"That's a... unique perspective on the phrase, but a wise one. I meant that you didn't seem the sort to beat about the bush."

||of course it's queek lmao

nor did the knight's hygiene seem to put her off...

...[too] much.

She eyes the knight with good humor. "And I'm sure you're just the sort to walk on eggshells around them, too."

And if Verone looked a little too close, she'd see the faintest shade of bruising along the woman's jaw and just above her cheekbone, concealed with makeup to maintain an otherwise-immaculate appearance.

If the injuries affected her mood, though, it wouldn't show,

Has a young woman been by?'

There's an expectant tone in his voice as he addresses the hulking man before him, and at his feet, the woman's trail leads right to her place at the fire.

She waits, watching this stranger from the shadows of her hood, not yet daring to cast another spell.

Three, then, burst from the tall grasses nearby. For a sharp eye, another lingers in cover, a bow readied.

'Spread out, she must have–' They halt suddenly when their apparent leader spies the odd trio around the fire and holds up a hand.

'Ah- beggin' your pardon for the intrusion, Ser.

"Yes," she continues, "I'll wager they found footprints. But I can give a little [nudge...]"

Whispered words leave her lips and a subtle glow gathers around her hands, barely bleeding through the fabric of her cloak. Her Hands reach for veil and draw Fate nearer to her grasp.

"Ah - so Fang likes the pretty ones." Laughter in her eyes, catching his only briefly before she returns to her disguise. Hunching her shoulders, rucking and dusting up her cloak, hair tucked away: without glimpsing her face, they might mistake her for a weary traveler.

From beneath, her sly smirk peeks out. "And if the goat came looking for [me,] it's an [atrocious] judge of character."

"...and I've stumbled right into it, it seems, and learned a bit of those pulling the strings.

Not like I wasn't a target already, I suppose."

She selects a seat near the fire with her back toward the oncoming footfalls and draws her cloak tight around her - and her hood up.

"Well, that's a little unfortunate, isn't it? I hear damsel-hood has its perks.

There's been trouble in town lately." She weighed how much to tell a stranger. The recent disappearances and alleged plagues were no secret; the rest of what she knew could cause either of them no end of trouble...

From the dark emerges a woman, slight of build, donned in modest decorative armor that looks a little worse for the wear of recent days. She eyes him, pacing the edge of the fire's glow.

"Has he? Does he often make a habit of seeking out damsels in distress?"

Something altogether different from the farm animals she once knew. At a snap of judgement - she takes the invitation. She's fairly sure those on her tail have nothing to do with giant goats or their owners.

And if she needs a shield, well... she couldn't have [picked] a more intimidating guardian.

The distant shouting of her hunters follows her. She's out of practice, slipping through the dark when trouble arises; life has been harsh these past weeks of turmoil, but certainly kinder in the days that preceded them.

She's considering her options when she spies something... unusual.

[Dexterity(Stealth) TN 13: 10]

Oh dear!

It seems hard to find lately."

"Oh aye? Mite genrous of ye."

She takes it, eyeing its contents. She eyes the one offering it, then, and decides there's not likely much room for schemes behind those eyes. Satisfied, she takes a long drink.

"Always nice to find someone who doesn't mind a little squabble.

"Good...bye?"

...Hopefully that didn't indicate she had an admirer. She's never been good at letting them down easily.

Her thumb pulls away from the helmet with a sticky crinkle, and she's grateful for the foresight to stow her work before accepting it. Thus began the arduous task of cleaning it..

Alone, it's more difficult to stand against those who waited in ambush for her. Alone, no one could give her cover to cast her spells, nor would a hand be offered if she fell.

Fortunately, a life lived in half-truths and false promises had trained her well for a swift escape.