Rowan (Rowan Silverhair
'Sings-Like-A-Harp' HyNeil)The door to the Pub slowly, quietly pushes open. With all the noise of the Pub's everyday operations, any sound is probably swallowed. Tired feet pad through the doorway, and the door is shut behind. A woman stands for a moment, back to the door, looking into the room. Standing 6' tall, she wears her silver hair in a functional braid, swept back from a face that could easily grace fashion magazines or Irish tourism brochures. It's a face that encourages friendship, somehow just as friendly and approachable as she is beautiful. Oddly coloured eyes, the outer 2/3 of her irises iciest blue, the inner ring verdant green, seem older, sadder, quieter. There's new pain there, keeping close company to old anguish and disappointments, but hope and joy have not been lost. A faint smile lights her spellbinding face...
She wears a torn, white silk shirt. One sleeve, the right, is missing all material from the elbow down, and that edge is burnt, and singed, a little higher up. A bandage wraps her forearm, with faint blood seepage showing through the brilliantly white guaze. Black leather trousers, and black, soft-soled boots complete the outfit, with a sheathed sword hanging from her side. A knotwork tattoo, in blue-green, is visible ringing her neck. From one ear hangs what some might recognize as the crest of House Scathach.
(No formal exit; last posting May 23, 2002.)