⠀⠀⠀THERE'S ⠀something assuring about a denizen's scream. … Not the sound itself, of course — that was grating. Bone-chilling, even. But regardless of her personal feelings about her former life, she was an assassin; it was an impulse, that tightening of the stomach when you realized you were alive and your opponent was not. And despite those aforementioned, pesky feelings, this island would always have a need for her to keep her skills sharp.
⠀⠀⠀So she spends ample time in the Mistwood when it suits her, going to places her instinct tells her she shouldn't, telling herself it gives less-capable travelers one less thing to worry about each time she fells some inky horror. No sooner had she flicked jet-black blood off her daggers, leaned her back against a rock to survey her surroundings, than those very surroundings were bathed in red. This particular shade of crimson was of the near-blinding variety, and although she's never seen it in person, the spike in energy felt familiar to her. She follows the tug in her gut, head canting toward the man matter-of-factly sheathing his sword as the wave passes; it was easy enough to spot him, considering he'd briefly parted the mist itself.
⠀⠀⠀❛ ⠀Hm. Can't you ever just give a polite 'hello' ?⠀ ❜⠀
@wiltingbeast : starter call.
