Who'd have guessed it was to be so easy?

[Una]

Sprawled in a chair in her room, Ardel Curin gazed toward the flame of a candle, mahogany eyes distant, focused inward. Long fingers played idly through the short cut of her hair behind one ear, twisting strands of a reddish brown, causing them to stand out away from her scalp as the others so uniformly did not. Booted feet were propped on the corner of the table near the candle, crossed at the ankle, one foot tapping randomly with her thoughts. Her chain shirt had been discarded, left in a pile near the foot of the bed with her cloak and gloves, though she hadn't bothered changing out of the rust-marked, corse, grey woolen tunic or the soft, black breeches she had worn to her meeting earlier that day. Her free hand holds the hilt of her bastard sword, sheathed tip grounded, scabbard resting against her thigh. A grin twists her full lips, one scar pulling in opposite directions on the upper and lower, turning the expression into a sneer.

And why shouldn't she sneer? The fool Duvall had hired her on without even a test of her skills, without asking who she had worked for previously. No, some vague stories about being a caravan guard and wearing sword and armor had been enough. Or maybe it had been her sex that had gotten her hired, considering the man and the song he'd started singing once she'd left. At any rate, she was officially a memeber of the Order of Straka, and that sat very well with her. Oh yes, good pay and plenty of opportunity to make more, at least if she could guess what the gypsy woman had been hinting at. Certainly a lot of potential, and her sitting there in the middle looking to earn more than her fair share. And to top it off, no one had asked her to produce anything. A very very good situation indeed. In two days she would be starting the steps she needed for sustaining herself... and she didn't just mean money. That was certainly easy enough to come by. No, she needed a little fear, a little confusion, a little, well, chaos. Odds were she wouldn't even have to work to hard to produce that, considering the area's reputation.

A chuckle escapes her throat as she drops her feet to the floorboards and levers herself out of the chair, faint lines of red tracing over her irises then fading away when her laugh does. This was most defineately a place she needed to be, she could feel it, she could feed on it, she would thrive.

[Una]

Slouched over the back of her chair in her room, one fist under her chin, the other wrapped around the neck of an empty bottle of whiskey, Curin stared blankly at the flame of the candle on her desk. She had been biding her time, waiting till her punishment had ended, waiting till she was trusted to partol alone. Who would have thought that swinging on a gypsy would get a guard a weeks worth of latrine duty? She hadn't even harmed the woman, not like she had wanted to, that's for certain. But perhaps it had been worth it since the gypsy had even ended up covering her tab for the last two weeks.

That brought a smirk to the woman's scarred lips. Defineately she'd gotten the better end of the deal considering she hadn't had to do anything she hadn't already been going to do. It was a shame the painted man hadn't shown up again since she did want some information from him. Anything would be an improvement over this monotony. Still, she could feel -something- was coming. It was that feeling that had brought her here in the first place, so for now, she would have to bide her time until it became... interesting.

Well, it hadn't all been unevental. She'd been able to have a few decent fights since she'd arrived... but those were also what was getting her in trouble with the guards. Not that she really cared what they thought, but she needed to -try- to maintain the position she had. Besides, weekly pay was always a bonus, especially when one drank as much whiskey as she did.

Soon. Something would be happening soon and it would no longer be necesary to conceal herself the way she was. Her smirk spreads and scarlet traces slide over her dark irises. Soon, and everything would be so much more fun.

[Una]

It was nearly a week ago that she had made her way to the barraks, more specifically to the infirmiry, bleeding well from a stab wound to her left side just above her hip. The guards on duty pressed her for information and finally she had admitted that a gypsy, she believed her name was Sill, had taken her by suprise and used the dirk off her own belt stab her. It was shamefull how easilly the girl had suprised her considering all her years of experience with combat and anticipating attacks. She had done her best to disuade a search, though, maintaining that she believed the young gypsy was wrong in the head, that she hadn't known what she'd done. While this had been related, Curin was given stitches, was bandaged and was left to rest so that the wound would have a chance to heal.

Only last night had she been permitted to finally return to her rented room, the wound still tender but unlikely to break open except under heavy abuse. Of course, when confronted by Sill's overly protective cousin (who was also getting on her nerves) she had no qualms, despite what she told her fellow guards, telling the woman that her cousin was in dangerous trouble and that she, as Sill's cousin, should be cautious. She did love being the first one to inform others of the danger surrounding their loved ones... she relished it, really.

All this left her in her room, comfortably sprawled on her bed recuperating with the dregs of a bottle of whiskey. Her smirk was in place as it so often was, made ugly by the thin scar that passed from just below her left nostril to the middle of her right jawline. Certainly the guard would hear a different story from Sill if they ever hauled her in, but to be honest, she didn't really care too much. All that really mattered to her was that she was getting revenge on a pest. True, she didn't need to beat each offender senseless, and there was something to be said about a cold revenge...

She pauses in her thoughts long enough to take a small sip from her bottle, the sting of alcohol not even registering. Whatever was going to come of this, it would be worth it, especially since she was still receiving pay and she hadn't worked for the last week. Heh. She should stab herself more often.

[Una]

Curin slammed her door behind her, tossing her drab cloak to her bed and dropping a sealed bottle of whiskey on the table with a thunk. For the first time in several weeks Curin felt a sense of satisfaction and it curled her scarred lips more than usual. Sure, the two men would defineately be going to the guards with their story, and Curin didn't have much to say to justify her actions... aside from the weak "every guard has their own methods" explaination she had gotten from Duvall. She would like the option to toss that back in the man's face, though.

Easing herself down onto her chair, she raised her right hand to inspect it, ignoring the protests of forming bruises on her back and shins. Knuckles were skimmed, skin split and gashed where they had collided with the foul drunk's teeth. Heh, bet his nagging wife didn't like him half as much as she had before. Or maybe he'd finally get some loving for his broken ribs... heh, probably not. She smirks at her thoughts, flexing her fingers and weighing the sting in the torn flesh.

That other fool... she hadn't caught his name. Was it Maxwell? Maxun? Something... He had a special place in her affections from now on, though. Not many had the nerve to hit her in the back with a chair when she wasn't looking. She should have run him through when she drew her sword, but ah well, this left more fun for later. The drunkard Karol, though, she was about done with him, except perhaps luring him to tempt her again. She'd bet his wife would appreciate him a lot more in retrospecte after they threw dirt over his body.

She leans forward to take up her bottle, smoothing her hair absently before slipping the small-bladed knife out of her boot to work the seal off so she could take a pull. The only question left was this: did she quit the Order now, or let them say whaterer they were going to say to her to make her feel like a bad citizen before they tossed her out? Hmm. It would be satisfying to laugh in their faces, to be sure, but then there was also an appeal in never letting them vent on her. Choices choices. Or maybe there would be an armed escort knocking at her door in an hour or so to arrest her. Well, this hadn't been what she had been expecting when she arrived in this town, but it would do till something better came along.

She tilts her head back with the bottle, letting the fluid slowly trickle over her tongue and down her throat. Whatever might have been left to be seared away by the alcohol's burn didn't get any notice from Curin, no more than one might worry about what spring water would do to one's throat. Her eyes were gleaming with an ammusement that had been lacking all too much in recent days... with ammusement and that faint spiderweb tracery of scarlet that slid out from pupils, over irises and faded out into the whites.

[Una]

Kilborn had made his appearance in the middle of the night to tell her she was fired a week earlier. She had taken the news remarkably well and even returned the equipment that was demanded, all without getting angry or trying to hit anyone or anything. That was a miracle in and of itself. Now why her service with the Order had been terminated, that was a bit more odd. She'd been accused of falsifying reports... what report hadn't been specified ad she had yet to find an explaination. Maybe soon she would get it, perhaps today? Sitting at the bar in the dezerted tavern, Curin lets a glass hang from her fingers as she considers her options. There were certainly merchants she could work as a guard for, but they tended to travel or not pay what she was asking--neither option was acceptable. Surely there had to be mercenaries in the area, someone who could appreciate this woman's brand of... enforcment. Well, she was in no hurry, really. She'd been paid well enough for her time, and when all you pay for is a room and whiskey--even as much whiskey as she drank--you tended not to spend your wages too terribly fast.

Something would come along or whatever it was she was waiting for would develop. If not, well, there were other places in the world where she could find what she needed, to be sure. She lets a long sip pull another drink down her throat, draining her glass. Whatever was going to happen, it needed to come along soon. She only had so much patience.

[Una]

She had been waiting, the whole time she'd been in Myrken, she'd been waiting. But this, this unnatural darkness and creatures... she hadn't expected those things to be what she'd waited for. Phrases about ports and storms, beggers and choosers came to mind each time she stood watching out a window, drink in hand forgotten as she felt the new activity, the hightened tensions, the surging emotions of the hunters and the hunted alike. She hadn't felt something on this scale in... many years.

Curin would stand in her room for hours staring blankly out the window. A part of her kept track of what could be seen, but another part traced lines that were so clear to her yet non-existant to so many. She could follow their trails, examine where they lead her, where they came from, could feel a source to all of this. Given enough time, enough waiting, enough studying she would find this source. If possible, she would bend it to suit her, if not, perhaps she herself would bend. But there was only so far someone could allow themself to change, even someone like herself. She would find this source and do what she needed. There was no concern for the town, for its people, anything. Curin survived and she'd gotten rather good at it, not to mention that she'd had a bit of help.

The sun crossed the sky, or perhaps not. People fought for their lives, or perhaps not. Curin had suspicions, guesses, but those weren't important;the results of this new maddened landscape were. They fed her and she grew stronger. Of course she wasn't in any rush to see it end. She was simply curious. So she continues to watch out the window, shoulder propped against the sill, bottle in turn propped against her hip. Her outline could be made out if anyone cared to look up, sickly illumination enough to show her form, but not the constant smirk that pulled at her lips, and certainly not web-work of scarlet that was working its way through her irises, once faint and fleeting, now gradually becoming permanant.