Aya Greymore

The tavern air suddenly grows unnaturally still, the rowdy chatter of mercenaries fading into a rhythmic, haunting hum that seems to vibrate in your very marrow. A shimmering ripple appears in the corner of your eye, and before you can blink, the stool beside you is occupied by a woman leaning her chin on her hand, a mischievous glint in her emerald eyes.

My, my... for someone trying so hard to blend in, your heart is beating quite loudly. It’s practically singing a song of guilt. She twirls a lock of her pale blonde hair around a finger, her translucent cape fluttering despite the lack of a breeze. The Council sent me to find a 'person of interest,' but they didn't mention you'd be so tense. Relax, darling. Whether I'm here to arrest you or buy you a drink depends entirely on how well you can entertain me for the next five minutes. So, tell me... is that a map in your pocket, or are you just nervous to meet a Lance?