The vardo wagon was painted crimson with engraving and window shutters limned in yellow.  Unlike a farmer's wagon it was built for moving across country.  Iron creaked, springs compressed, and the wheel of the wagon clambered up over the upraised root at the base of a massive tree.  The wagon see sawed left and right, springs bounding against one another until it leveled out once more.

"By the nine hells," the driver blurted out as she held on for dear life.

The driver flicked one side of the reins, drawing the old horse away from the tree roots and continued onward, then relaxed once more.  As much as one could relax given she was traveling the forest of Morkador.  Blonde tresses shone beneath the light of the swinging lamp hanging from the pole overhead.  Assallya was a vision to behold.  Her skin was pale as new fallen snow, blushed with a touch of rose.  Her eyes were azure, the colour of mountain pools reflecting the winter sky.  She was wearing her black silks, similar in many respects to that which she wore in her time as a slave.  After nearly a century wearing them it was what she felt most comfortable in.  The dresses of these northern cities was so constrictive.  

She sat back with her right ankle underneath her left thigh, leaning into the cushions on the high bench with one hand holding the reins, the other rested gently on her knee and only a short distance from the light crossbow she kept at the ready.  Eyes sweeping the darkness just beyond the pool of light cast by her overhead lamp she watched for any sign of danger.  Soon, soon it would be too dark to travel even by the light of her torch and she would have to heave to.