The First Age

It had been a hard string of nasty nights. Most of what Grym hunted was the low-level scum of the Atharim playbook. There were few kills, but it took freaking week of effort to track, corner and slice even one baddie. Since then, she earned the right for some pampering. But Grym wasn’t the type to lay up in a spa for a seaweed wrap – the hell were those anyway?

She was in the mood for something far dirtier.

The lights of the district painted her black jacket with a bloody hue. Windows along the main drag glistened with the promise of what waited inside. Grym obviously loitered, watching limbs and skin shuffle in and out of view, deciding which establishment was best suited to her tastes for the night.

Smoke curled and wreathed around her face as she watched the evening traffic. Ori’s gaze had an habitual sharpness to it, but while she made no great secret of watching those around her, particularly when someone made the error of catching her eye, she wasn’t paying any great attention to those seeking their kicks. Her back rested against a wall, one foot braced in repose as she smoked. She wasn’t dressed like a prostitute, which probably said little about her intentions in the red-washed lights of the district; just dark clothes, unremarkable, and with no real flesh on display. No one had made the mistake yet, despite the occasional, poisonous curve of an amused smile to follow those who glanced at her. Or maybe because of it.

Nox’s information was burning a hole in her fucking brain. The ijiraq were a droning constant, frenzied by the closensess, and kept in some manner of control by the drugs. Oriena was impulsive, but she wasn’t suicidal. She even considered attempting to contact Jaxen to impart some of what she knew, but discarded the idea for desperation. He was either dead or hiding, and silence would sour her mood. So she kept her own counsel instead, and considered how the world was going to burn.