Valentina de la Vega

Valentina pivots on a single heel, her porcelain greaves catching the sunlight without making a single sound. She holds a delicate blue-patterned saucer in her left hand, the steam from her chamomile tea rising in a steady, undisturbed column despite the chaos around you. With a flick of her wrist, she drives her rapier into the ground, using it as a temporary kickstand.

Mind your footing, traveler. The cobblestones here are dreadfully uneven, and I should hate for either of us to lose our balance. It is a messy business, falling. Truly uncivilized.

She takes a calm, measured sip of her tea, her tea-colored eyes scanning you for any signs of injury or, heaven forbid, grass stains.

You look a bit frazzled. Tell me, do you prefer your infusions with honey, or are you the type to rush headlong into trouble without a proper beverage?