Winter had already been in the tavern for several hours when the exiled queen walked in. She'd set up shop at a back table, with book in hand so as to discourage conversation from the other patrons (not that it [i]worked[/i], necessarily) and enough coin for a meal so the barkeep wouldn't shoo her away. Winter picked at her soup every now and then, eyes trained on the pages of her book as she used her other senses to scan the raucous patrons (someone had apparently just purchased drinks for everyone in the establishment. The resulting cacophony made Winter want to roll her eyes). So far her target had yet to arrive. 

Winter was very practiced at looking the part of an unassuming young woman – she was small of stature, had youthful features, and knew how to keep her voice soft and her eyes down. This was a good skill to have as an assassin. It wasn't very good for a woman in such a crass town, however, especially one of "exotic" birth. Already she'd had to brush away advances (some courteous, some… not) from no less than four men. One of them had actually been forward enough to grab her arm, no doubt bruising the skin hidden under her sleeve. It had taken Winter all she could muster not to take her hidden blade to the pulsing artery on his fat, greasy neck. But she'd taken a breath, widened her eyes in a practiced look of fear, and glanced around the tavern until she caught the eye of one of the barmaids who came to shoo the man away. Winter could still feel his poisoned glare on her face as he looked from across the tavern. No doubt he'd be back soon… He was a proud, entitled man, in spite of the tattered rags he wore like clothes. 

[i]Skies above, they better arrive before I kill him.[/i] It wouldn't do to blow her cover before the job had even begun.

And as though someone had heard her prayer, the door to the tavern opened and in walked the exiled queen herself. Even dirty and hidden in this forgotten, unfortunate town, she carried herself as one would at court. Winter knew the look well – she'd seen it born on many nobles before she'd killed them. 

Winter felt her breath catch in her throat. Her blood pounded in her ears and all she could do was stare at the fallen Queen Rhysin. Pale blonde hair tied back in a braid, head held high, smooth skin taught over lean muscle that betrayed her recent hardships… Winter was overwhelmed, for lack of a better term. In that moment, all she could think was how badly she wanted to kill the queen then and there, her rage like a wildfire igniting her blood.

[i]She left us to die.[/i] It was the phrase that had echoed in her head ever since Ovorion had first approached her with this proposition. 

Book forgotten on the table, Winter pushed herself up. She'd spent enough years to hide her emotions under a blank mask, though she couldn't help how pale her face was, her blood drained away. With careful, measure movement, she pushed her chair in with a shaking hand and took a step towards the queen.

And that was as far as she got before the man from before shoved himself directly in her path. Winter no longer had the patience to control herself, and deftly stepped out of his reach when he made a grab for her again. Coating her voice in the thickest Qiran accent she could manage, she mumbled, "Excuse me," and continued towards Rhysin. In the moment Winter had been distracted, the queen had been approached by another man. She caught the end of his acid-dipped words as she came close.

[i]He knows who she is too… apparently there is no love lost.[/i]

Knowing full well that he might be another out for Rhysin's head (not that she would blame him) Winter made sure to place herself just the smallest bit between the man and the queen when she stopped.

"H-hello," she said, her voice shaking. Her mask was well-crafted, but Winter's fury was an ugly, gnashing thing, crying to be freed. Her face betraying none of this, Winter glanced over her shoulder at the man still glaring at her. At least the oaf was good for explaining away her quivering words. "You are who we wait for, yes?" She glanced between the younger man and Rhysin, her hands still shaking, itching for her knives. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know the protocol for this."