Morrisa (10) – There is Always a Beginning
The girl perched on a chair at a table in the back of the inn, methodically separating the leaves from a pungent assortment of herbs and stacking them in neat little piles. Her thin fingers made quick work of the task, expertly stripping the plants of all usable parts before flicking the useless stems into the fireplace. She appeared extremely intent on her work and never lifted her concentration from the table.
An old man sat across the nearly-empty inn, watching the girl with the same intensity. His eyes roved over her tanned, slender body, not at all concealed in the form-fitting blood-red robes she wore. Her hair, cropped shorter than shoulder length and flipping out at the end of spiky layers shifted in subtle shades of blue and black in the shadows cast by the fire. He watched the gold bracelets around her nearly-skeletal wrists clink and sparkle in the lamplight as she deftly divided the plants into stacks on the worn wood tabletop. A blood-red gem dangled from her delicate throat on a dainty golden chain and he mused in passing that it must be cheap costume jewelry, being used to garner her somewhat lacking bust some attention.
He was still gazing upon the girl when she turned slightly to dig into her pack. She produced a tiny box and inside, she found small rectangles of whisper-thin paper which she promptly set on the table before setting about mixing surprisingly exact amounts of the herbs atop the little white scrap. The burly old man snorted to himself in realization: the waif was rolling smoke! His suspicion was confirmed when she rolled the paper into a thin tube and quickly twisted the ends.
He had had enough of watching the youth and strode purposefully across the room. “I doubt yer old enough to be smokin’ that, eh?” he chuckled thickly, setting his ale on her table. “A pretty lil’ thing like you shouldn’t be doin’ it anyway, yeah? A nasty habit, that.”
The girl peered up at him with disconcertingly coal-black eyes. “I don’t really think it’s any of your business,” she replied quietly, finishing the twists on the ends of the cigarette.
The man was slightly taken aback by the coolness of her voice and the smolder of her deep eyes. He furrowed his brow and lifted his mug to his lips. “I think it be my business, darlin’, seein’ as how,” he paused, his eyes darting about in what he assumed was an inconspicuous manner, “this be my inn.”
To his surprise, the girl snickered quietly. “We both know that’s not true, old man. Let’s just both go about our business, hmm?” She motioned to the tiny roll suspended between her thin fingers.
The old man, not one to be put in his place by what appeared to be a mere child, became incensed. “Why, I oughta throw you out, you little wench!” he hissed through gritted teeth, spittle flying from his overgrown beard. “Or maybe I oughta learn you some manners, yeah? A lil’ schoolin’ on how you oughta talk to your elders.” He thumped his mug on the table, ale sloshing over the rim and spilling dangerously near her heaps of plant matter. “Or,” he began with a sneer, “how’s about how to treat yer elders, eh?” He reached to snatch the cigarette the girl was bringing to her lips.
Quick as lightning, the girl lifted her free hand and snapped her fingers, a half-inch flame springing to life at the tip of her pointer finger. The distraction gave the old man pause because, though drunk, he was not drunk enough to stick his hand through fire. The girl rested her elbow on the table, her unsettlingly dark gaze never leaving his own shocked stare. “I’m not here for any trouble, old man,” she said, cigarette hovering between her lips. “Just a quiet girl in a quiet inn in a quiet little town. But if you have the nerve to get that close to me again, well.” She splayed her fingers and the tiny fire spread and grew, multiplying into five inch-high flares dancing across each finger tip. “Why don’t you just sit back down over there before the real owner of this place shows up, hmm?”
The man stood in shock, frozen in a strange sort of horrified fascination as the flame engulfed the girl’s slight hand. Still never releasing his stare, she brought the blaze to the tip of the cigarette. When he still made no move to leave, she inhaled deeply to catch the tip of the smoke, then flicked her hand in his direction. Miniscule sparks silently exploded from her fingertips and found a new home in his scraggly beard.
The man loosed a high-pitched shriek. He dropped his mug, ale bursting forth like a fountain while he turned and ran out the door.
The girl shook her hand to extinguish the inferno, her dark eyes already refocused on her herbs.
The inn was nearly empty. A quiet man sat in a quiet corner, a disquieting smile spread across his face.
I decided on using their starting gear for the first outfit, mainly because there isn’t much to wear at level 10 and I haven’t really made much gold. It’s also a very simple robe, which is what Morrisa currently prefers. Simple, nondescript, and easily forgettable.