Scan of Character Sheet - Back
The night is cold, and the dark settles in early. The wind is biting, but when it stills, the world is silent. It is eerie for this part of such a bustling town. Warden's Gate is no backwater village. Even here at the very furthest northeastern outskirts of the city, it is populous. Most of the buildings here are inns and taverns, stopping places for travellers to and from the city. One can see the great forest beyond from this road. The cold keeps everyone inside.
Travel is dangerous for several reasons at this hour of night, but for some, necessary. The street is silent. Long shafts of yellow light from tavern windows are thrown across the dusty and wagon-rutted road. The darkness of the forest that lines the opposite edge of the road, thicker and thicker the further northeast it goes, is almost palpable, like a solid object or viscous fluid.
Briefly, the slightest icy breeze stirs, and there is movement in the darkness, black upon black. The frayed edge of a black cloak moves in the biting air, and a form detatches itself from the darkness - like a hole in the shadows, deeper than midnight. The figure is humanoid, but extraordinarily tall. Only trolls and elves are this tall, and this figure is too slight to be the former. Your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and slowly lend definition to the elf, who does not move.
It is a female. She is dressed all in black from head to toe. Her cloak is thin and threadbare, too insubstantial for the weather, but she does not seem bothered by the cold. The hood is voluminous, shadowing her eyes. The slightest gleam of brittle ice blue is the only hint that she is, in fact, looking at you unblinkingly. Her black woolen leggings are worn thin at the knees, and her black cotton travelling shirt sports tears and mends in very dangerous locations. Her wide leather belt is slung low on her hips, guising the curve of a female form to the idle glance. Soft soled black suede boots are laced tightly around her calves, and a black steel dagger hilt protrudes from one of them. At her left hip is a longsword with an onyx hilt, and strapped to her back is a beautifully silver-inlaid longbow and a quiver of black and silver fletched arrows. Her belt holds several other pouches and her chest is crossed diagonally by a bandolier - and you are certain there are many more weapons that cannot be seen.
All buckles and closures have been dulled with a wire brush and blacked with soot to keep them from glinting. Her hands are gloved in black leather and her hood, when pulled forward, hides her alabaster pale skin. She is a rogue, of that you can have no doubt, now - she is made for stealth and silence.
The door of a tavern opens to let out several patrons, and the light from the door throws the elf into brilliant relief. Her gaze flicks to the door and she moves a half a pace back behind the tree and into the safety of the shadows again.
The fraction of a second of brightness was enough to reveal detail. Her hair was short shorn beneath the hood, and nearly devoid of colour, so blonde was it. Her face was hideously scarred, triple lacerations down the right side of her cheek that looked fairly recent. Older scars ringed her neck and her wrists, burns in the shape of hands, as if she were scalded by someone's touch. From the scars, you recognize her. A tale you once overheard an old sailor at theharbour telling to a child. You thought it a fairy tale, this Ice Spectre, this ghost bearing triple scars and boasting a death toll of nearly 400 men in a horrific 35 year career as an assassin. You thought he was just trying to scare the children into going home to safety by dark. And now you face the Ice Spectre of his tale.
Strangely, from the scars she bears alone, you feel strongly that you are not welcome to take even one step nearer to the elf. And if that is not enough to convince you, she is regarding you again. Not with interest, nor with expectation, nor with study. She is simply regarding you, like a cat, until you are gone from Her Territory.
So perhaps you should go now.
Teitho albach. Pedo al' lle esta. Cano almin mellon. Estelo almin.
Min pilin', min gurtha.
N'oio na rutha. N'oio ten' acharn. N'oio peda. N'oio elea. N'oio ten' leitha.
Manka lle glake, lle naa ba. Manka lle rusve vesta, lle naa ba. Manka lle naa voran a' sereg'varan, lle naa, ba, ar' ron naa vithel. Manka lle dannaa, lle sana coille.
Ona gurtha ri' ona e'a ta.
(Translation:)
Write nothing. Never speak your name. Call no one a friend. Trust no one.
One arrow, one death.
Never in anger, never for revenge. Never speak, never be seen. Never for free.
If you are captured, you are dead. If you break your fow, you are dead. If you form alliances with [non-assassins], you are dead, and so are they. If you fail, you will take your own life.
Deal death or succumb to it.
