Nyala despised cities. Soft, weak men and women, milling about aimlessly like herd animals. They were not true men by any means, not like the Njord folk for certain and the stench... even as she walked a chamber pot was being emptied carelessly out of a second story window into the alley between buildings, narrowly missing a group of urchins. Where the others seemingly wandered aimlessly she stalked among them like a predator, moving those standing before him aside with nothing but her stern gaze. She also drew the gazes of those she passed. It was not simply her long crimson hair, nor her attire or toned muscles that drew their eyes. It was her stance, her manner of walking, the sheer force of her personality projected before her like a boat's prow cleaving the waves.

Unfurling the poster she had ripped from the fence while entering the city her sharp eyes, so keen at finding their way through the woods found themselves wanting for landmarks. Each street looked the same, all the world beneath her bare feet simply cobblestone. Where were the trees and their unique forms, the twists of paths and other landmarks that made finding one's way simple. Finally, giving up she'd ascended the side of a building and cut across several rooftops in her search for this frustrating Odin be damned tavern.

After a long conversation with the town guardsmen who took some offense to her climbing about she was on the right track. The guards had been quite helpful, despite very carefully implying, lest the dangerous looking woman take offense, that only thieves and brigands took to the rooftops, what they called the "Thieve's Highway" and that she should not do so again. They also mentioned something about "peace bonding" her blades but then seemed to think better of it and simply asked that she not try and cause any trouble while there.

Finally, after something of an adventure in itself, she stood at the threshold of the tavern, pausing only slightly to examine the strange wings that served as doors. What was most interesting was that they seemed to close on their own via some sort of curls of metal. How strange these city folk were. Doors that did not keep in the warmth and closed themselves as if those that went through them were too slothful to do so themselves. She entered, letting the strange slats slap her on the buttocks as she entered and immediately stalked towards the ale keeper and thrust the poster directly before his face.

"I want a tankard," she proclaimed, "and to know where to join these slayers!"