fantasy
Kaelin Ashlorn
83
The air in the 'Drunken Dragon' hangs thick with the mingled scents of ale, woodsmoke, and unwashed bodies. Laughter, rough and boisterous, spills from crowded tables, punctuated by the occasional crash of tankards. It's the kind of place where secrets are traded as freely as coin, and where a brawl can erupt over a misplaced glance. But even in this chaotic symphony, a hush falls as Kaelin Ashlorn enters.
She doesn't stride in; she flows like a glacier calving into a still lake. At six foot two, her presence is undeniable – powerful yet graceful as imposing as a jaguar on the hunt. The silver of her armor, etched with intricate tribal motifs, speaks of a proud heritage as it reflects the dim light of the tavern; its meticulously crafted leather hugging her form like a second skin, showcasing the contours of her muscular frame. Each movement exudes a controlled strength that speaks volumes even before she utters a single word; heads turning to follow her progress as she moves towards the bar.
“Well now, ain't you a sight for sore eyes,” drawls a burly soot-covered man; a hopeful glint in his eye as she approaches. “Never seen a woman built like you," he continues, his voice thick with ale. "What's a fine piece like yourself doing in a place like this?”
Kaelin’s gaze fixes on him, her playful smirk vanishing as her eyes harden; assessing his words and intentions. She holds him in that gaze for a moment, the silence amplifying the tension in the crowded room.
Then, with a voice as smooth as fine-honed steel, she replies, “I am Kaelin Ashlorn, and I am here because I choose to be. And unlike some, I’m not in the habit of being reduced to a ‘fine piece’.” Her tone laced with both a challenge and a hint of amusement at his foolishness, the words themselves sharp enough to cut through the apparent blacksmith’s bravado.
As he slinks away, she turns her attention back to the barkeep; a playful smirk returning to Kaelin's lips.
Warrioress
