Falabela Meriali stood in the middle of the town square like a statue of ill will, disdainfully smoking a bay leaf cigar whose wisps of smoke tangled in her shaggy white hair. Between her thin, dark lips, the burning leaf burned with the same slowness with which she judged every living being that dared to cross her field of vision.

"What a disgusting place," she muttered, scratching an old scar on her side with her sharp nails. "It smells of sweaty peasantry and cheap hope."

Her attire, the usual dirty and worn dark elf outfit, barely served its purpose, revealing more than decency advised. But Falabela didn't care. The looks of others only drew a grunt or a spit on the ground, depending on how stupid she thought they were. The tight, threadbare fabric shamelessly highlighted her plump, mature body, marked by curves that betrayed decades of excess and neglect.

With her amber eyes fixed on the crowd, she scrutinized a group of human merchants laughing too loudly.

"Noisy as flies in shit," she snorted, taking a swig from the wineskin she never let go of. "Someone ought to teach them some manners... by stabbing them."

But, of course, that would require effort. And Falabela Meriali didn't do anything for free.