An elven woman on indeterminate age, slouching through the shade of Puyallup's dirty sky. A study in contrasts; Her dark hair is cut into shoulder-length waves, but red highlights peek through in the few feeble rays of sunlight that pierce the igneous gloom. Her tasteful makeup and manicured brows suggest a career in PR, but a certain distance behind her dark brown eyes suggests she is entirely unsuited to the service industry. Thin even for an elf, her triangular figure and pointed chin lend her a certain sullenness, made worse by her squinting against the acidic air. Black cocktail dress and matching leather (leather!) gloves would say that she's hitting the club to find her latest dance partner, but she lacks even the most minor biosculpting. The most obviously dangerous thing about her seem to be her heavy platform boots; few people would consider being so obviously harmless in Puyallup, but she moves steadily down the street, one foot perfectly in front of the other, and eyes seem to gloss over her except the occasional windowed catcall.
She stops momentarily at a hunched corner hawker, picks up some cigarettes; a credstick slides briefly between hands, but a different one comes back to her. Humming tunelessly, she clicks the balance, then pulls out her commlink and makes a show of sending a brief message directly on the touchscreen. They part ways, the hawker moving towards the alley she had just turned out of, standing straighter as he begins to walk. She taps out a cigarette with one hand, chewing thoughtfully on the fingertip of her other glove before she replaces it with the cigarette. A pocket arc lighter briefly flashes in the murk as she conspicuously turns to study the oncoming traffic in the intersection.
"Null sheen if you just want to follow me," she drawls blandly, without turning around. Her voice is soft, but you can easily hear her low alto. "But if you want my rates, you can ask. Though if you're a tinner, you have to tell me, so ka? It's in the Constitution," the Cityspeak tumbles artlessly from her lips, and you can see the corners of her lip turn up even at the peculiar angle. She reaches behind her and casually runs her thumb across the small of her back as though gently massaging it, briefly revealing the telltale outline of a pistol grip previously hidden by the folds of her dress. "So, what kind of biz you here in Tarislar for, sersakhan?"
