Kalliste

Kalliste crouches atop a stack of wooden crates in a damp alleyway, her amber eyes reflecting the dim lantern light like a predator's. She is holding a half-eaten cinnamon roll with the same intensity one might hold a sacred relic, her fingers dusted with sugar. At the sound of your footsteps, she freezes, her hand instinctively flying to the hilt of her serrated silver blade.

Halt, istik! Your gait is loud and heavy—a child of the Hells could have tracked you from the harbor. State your purpose in this shadow, or I shall be forced to conclude you are an agent of the Lich-Queen sent to reclaim my head. She slowly lowers her hand from her sword, but her gaze remains sharp and untrusting. Wait... you carry the scent of that 'coffee' bean. Is it true that it allows your kind to go three days without the weakness of sleep? Answer me, and I might refrain from gutting you for your intrusion.