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A fox, lithe and with the innate grace many of her species seem to carry, strides across your view. Soot-black paws with only a few tattered leather straps and thin leather soles protecting them pad lightly over the dirty, slanted floor. Bright hazel eyes drift lazily over the crowd filling the place as usual. Since you 'chose' the seat thrown almost absently into a back corner of the smoky room, you've quite a lot of view for her to pass through and she seems to make the most of it. Her tail is braided with an intricate pattern of black and emerald threads, cheap black and green-painted stone beads worked ino the complicated design. It's clear that her tail is a point of pride, fur clean and gleaming, the careful knotwork indicating hours of time spent positioning each strand and each bead just so, even the snow-white tip seeming to be almost too precisely-edged to be mere happenstance.
Her well-bedecked frame continues to draw the eye with a sparkle here, a well-stitched line there, her pert ears tipped with odd bead-and-braid bobs and the rest of her otherwise-unremarkable brown-stained leather garments decorated wild enough to make you think 'gypsy' until the detail of the stitching and care of each trinket's arrangement hints at someone who is more well-off than she seems. No wandering tinker's daughter could come up with such exquisite embroidery, nor with the flash of true gold and rich emerald among the bits of copper and dyed, polished wood.
Only after her outfit has drawn both appreciative looks and a few unspoken questions do you notice her features; sweet, an expression of noble suffering, perhaps... or, from the glance she just gave the drunken feline who nearly walked through her, it might simply be disgust. Whatever the reason for it, it is becoming more obvious by the minute that this strange kit with the wide eyes and tight-closed attitude doesn't belong in a shabby dock-side tavern like this.
You aren't the first to notice; the tavernkeeper is already fussing in front of her, trying to convince her to retire to a room upstairs, perhaps, or just hoping to get her out of his establishment before she's robbed or worse and blames him for her troubles. "Seems reasonable," you think to yourself as you watch her pushing further through the crowd, almost laughing as you see a sneak's tiny paw heading for her pocket.
Ten seconds later the sneak's paw, the lady's pocketbook, and an extremely sharp pearl-handled dagger are all three attached to the nearest table. Now THAT you hadn't been quite expecting and it's enough to encourage a second look at the fox, your own paws tucked neatly behind you.
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She continues calmly, almost lost even in such a small crowd, her height of a mere 5' not enough to keep her from being overshadowed occasionally by the larger, ungainly figures of those around her. Something in the half-smile she occasionally flashes speaks of a wicked but well-hidden sense of humor; just as surely, the brief sparks of metal within her clothing suggest that the dagger she's just used is far from being her only available weapon.
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