Take one measure of Highlander bloodline, mix with its sibling clan, darken on a sunlit road, then fire in the kiln of war. Shorter than most of her kin but just as sturdy, Ahris moves with athletic grace. Scents of woodsmoke and parchment surround her in an ever present haze, and what silver hairs adorn her head are worn proudly. Behind the curtain of tanned muscle her eyes burn with equal parts wanderlust and keen intellect.
A lock turned. The door banged open then shut again.
Weaving her way between bookshelves and partitions, a woman of prominently Highlander blood cast aside a mud-coated leather coat and similarly soiled boots. A trail of road filth marked out her path across the room, ending when she discarded the final article of her gear, a backpack, on a table at the far end.
Soreness ached in her limbs, the decadent warmths of a bath and bed calling. Before those siren songs can be heeded Ahris fishes a slender leather volume from the pocket of her coat and spreads it upon the desk.
At the end of the tome and below a line reading ‘Nothing here but undead. Lots of undead,’ she writes ‘Arrived home on the 14th of the 5th astral moon.’
The journal is placed on a shelf alongside dozens of its fellows. No two are quite alike. Some are stained with different shades of soil, cracked from varying hours in the sun and water, or scarred where a close strike had grazed the leather.
One more adventure was at a close. She was home. Comfortable home. Safe home. Predictable home.
A desktop chronometer ticked the seconds away.
Ahris paused just long enough to take an untainted journal before she twisted on her heel. In reverse order of how they had been discarded, she pulled her soiled gear back on as she made for the door.
Northern La Noscea was lovely this time of year, and the ruins always held surprises.
The door banged open then shut again. A lock turned.
