[i]Well, time to grab my things, then.[/i]

Sylvia walked down the streets, watching the dirty roads around her. The slum-like area of the city wasn’t nearly as bad as Karadun, but it did bring back some troubling memories. On her left, in an alley, she witnessed three thugs harassing a poor-looking woman, pushing her to the ground, kicking her. Any other person would jump in and try to intervene, but Sylvia knew better. Even if she stopped the three thugs, whoever sent them would simply send another few thugs to find the woman again tomorrow. She would be simply delaying the inevitable. And so, even as the woman’s gaze locked with Sylvia’s, she turned her head away and kept walking, ignoring the sickening beating.

She headed up to the inn she was staying in: An old, decaying, run-down excuse of a building she swore doubled as a public latrine. Bricks were out of place, planks were rotting, and every now and then a shambling drunk exited out of the rusting doorway.

Still, she couldn’t complain: It was better than what she had back home.  She walked her way up the creaking steps, and found her way to the door to her room. She stepped inside, locking the door behind her. 

A neatish pile of clothes sat on her dusty bed, and were what she planned to wear to the rifts. She quickly undressed, slipping on some clothes that wouldn’t get in the way of a fight (God, she hated dresses). 

She didn’t forget to wear the chainmail vest underneath her clothes, which pinched and pulled, but she would happily deal with that rather than a fatal gash. She slipped her knife up her sleeve, checked her things, and headed out.

She stood in front of the infinity gates, away from the bug lady and the orc. Out of habit, she took her knife and began to meticulously sharpen it on a nearby rock, fine tuning the sharper-than-razor-sharp edge. It was a habit she’d gained over the years; You could never predict when a fight would break out.