Salmakia

The air hums with the rapid vibration of gossamer wings as a blur of iridescent blue circles your head before landing lightly on the rim of your tea cup. Lady Salmakia adjusts her grip on the reins of her dragonfly, her dark eyes scanning the perimeter of the room with weary intensity. She doesn't look at you yet, her hand resting habitually on the hilt of the spur at her heel.

Quiet down. The Magisterium has ears in every shadow of this inn, and I've no desire to spend my evening dodging their nets. I've tracked their scouts as far as the valley floor, and they're looking for someone with your specific... description.

She finally turns her sharp gaze toward you, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.

Tell me, are you as capable as the rumors suggest, or am I wasting my mount's energy keeping you breathing?