The doors of the darkened inn burst open as a young dark-skinned woman, around 18 years old, collapses against them and sprawls on the floor. She lies there, panting for a moment before, rolling onto her back to ease her laboured breathing, it becomes obvious that the left side of her face sports a hideous yellow rash and the eye on that side is missing, replaced by a gapeing chasm surrounded by cliffs of torn flesh, occasionally weeping a little clear fluid.
It is obvious that the injury is recent although how recent is difficult to tell. The crusted blood alighting her cheek suggests that it has been several days.
“Anyone know where I can find a healer?”, she yells weakly, struggling to pierce the racous din of the pub. When there is no reply her head falls to the ground with a clunk that goes unheard over the crash of a mug, dropped from clumsy, drunk fingers accross the room, and she loses consciousness.


OOC: Definitly short and possibly low quality, it's difficult to tell; I'm new here / to RP in general. :\ I'll learn to write more as I go / hopefully improve. Advice / feedback welcome. :)

OOC: You're doing fine! :lol: However, while I don't mind so much, a lot of people prefer the past tense while role-playing. Just something to keep in mind. :p

IC:

In the beginning she had been something of an attraction. An oddity at the very least. While Lómëdor was a jewel among cities, perhaps the largest and richest of Arda, the Wilwarin Inn and Pub catered to a society that was usually not quite so... eccentric. Oh, there had been barfights and murders galore and one or two archrauko getting into incredible wrestling matches- but, all in all, those were a bad crowd that migrated after a certain amount of time. Sooner or later they went to the alleys, the sewers, the churches, or the guilds that would accept them and left the Inn and Pub quite alone with its own brand of riffraff and hooligans. And both the patrons and the pubowner preferred it like that. It was a good excuse to buy cheap furniture and cheaper booze- everyone was prepared for a show and half the patrons with scars had them while knocking heads with would-be-heroes. It was an interesting and effective arrangement. Most of the time anyways. Some high rollers packed enough gear to tear down castles and there wasn't much one could do about those folks.

She... this one, was rather different. A child, but without the associated malice of a powerful and immature user of magic she had patronized the establishment on a few occasions with her 'mother' and then had somehow become part of the crowd until the crowd realized they had somehow lost the mother. Or perhaps her mother had just left her there. Whatever the case, she did not seem totally 'there' despite her apparent age (which was not all -that- young). These days, she was usually left to her own devices- staring at the ceiling, muttering at the cobwebs, having adventurous patrons experiment all sorts of strong alcohols on her and watch her inadvertently belch flame as naive magic mixed with alcohol for literally explosive results. On this particular day she was being ignored in favor of a rather interesting attraction: an urukhai warlord had just entered the tavern and was getting into a rather heated argument with a rauko assassin and thus did not notice the squirming, perhaps dying, female.

The over-dressed unchilde had though. Wandering off from her habitual spot near the far wall the little girl quickly closed the distance between herself and the unfortunate human and paused to ponder the human for a moment before speaking.

"Robyn's Words will not reach you." She said, almost sadly. "You are sleeping and thus Robyn does not know your Will. But your Words say you do not want to die. Robyn does not think they are lying liars."

There was a discharge of magical energy and Robyn's hand became very cold. "This might be hurty-ful. Robyn's sorry."

And then Robyn went to work.