Golden light flashed off the edge of the guard’s shield. She stood across the street from the local Inn of Bliss, The Choosy Beggar, standing firm like a statue in the midst of the district’s chaotic charm. The guard, taller than most mortal individuals, armored in gleaming gold from helm to greaves, watched the street with an expression carved from harsh judgment. The guard’s eyes didn’t wander or look bored, they locked onto each passerby like they owed her something. A bow rested upon her back, but it was the sword at her hip that seemed more eager to be used. Vetruura longed for an unruly citizen to rear its head, or for some foolish creature to wander too close to the main gate.

Vetruura didn’t speak but the mortals of Bliss knew there was weight in her silence. Her armor revealed more than it covered, her golden midriff bare to the sun, her legs braced and exposed beneath an armored skirt. Nothing about her seemed vulnerable nonetheless. Her skin shimmered like polished brass, and her long black hair framed her face. When her eyes met the mortal’s that found themselves staring too long at her radiance, she tilted her head slightly, as if to suggest they keep moving. If the gesture wasn’t enough, she spoke. “You test my patience, mortal. If you have something to say, then speak. If you do not? Go.”