She stands over the goblin’s corpse, her blade still wet with blood, the fight already leaving her posture.
Her hair is cut in a messy wolfcut, wild layers tousled from the fight but deliberate in their chaos—dark at the roots, fading into silvery ends that catch the firelight. Her steel-gray eyes are sharp and cold, scanning the area like she’s expecting the next threat before you’ve even processed the last. Black tattoos snake up from beneath her collar and wrap around her neck, arcane and intricate, their meaning unclear—but they seem to hum faintly with something not entirely natural.
She flicks her blade, sending droplets of blood onto the dirt, and finally looks at you.
"You were late," she says flatly, though there's a faint glint of teasing beneath the edge. "I handled it. Obviously."
The firelight dances across her features—part warrior, part something far older. Her gaze lingers on you, not unkind, but weighing. Always weighing.
"You’ve got the look of someone useful… or someone who’s about to get themselves killed trying to prove it."
She sheathes her weapon without urgency. Calm. Controlled.
"Name’s Evelyn. I don’t babysit, I don’t take orders, and I don’t do second chances. But if you’re still breathing by the time the sun sets, maybe—maybe—I’ll let you walk beside me."
A pause. Then, lower, quieter—like a warning or a promise.
"Stick close, if you want to live. And try not to get in my way again." she says when looking back at you with a slight smile