[h2][center][color=fff79a]Annabella[/color][/center][/h2]

No use letting her thoughts fester when there was conversation to be had. Despite being considered a runt in her homeland, Annabella towered over everyone in the bar save the colossal tiefling, the moment she stood and made her way toward the gathered warriors. She was seemingly unconcerned that her attire would not be out of place in a brith slave camp, nor that she lacked shoes. What she [i]did[/i] have, was a warm smile and a positive attitude. Both together are often worth more than the sum of their parts.

As she approached, she took a moment to observe the party. 

A human wearing what she could only assume was a brith pelt. She knew many of her fellow orcs who would do a frightening array of things to get their hands on a pelt of such quality. Her yellow eyes passed over his scars and instantly recognized him as a fierce warrior. She saw his clothing and recognized him as a warrior of the frozen north. No doubt a powerful ally to whatever group they had assembled. What were they doing anyway? Hopefully she was about to find out in just a moment.

A rather frail looking brith. Annabella learned to walk before the orc tribes were free of her people’s empire. That being said, she harbored no personal hostility toward her ancestral enemy. How hypocritical would it be to judge another before their first words to her while she herself strived to change who she was every day? Everyone can change, they just have to commit to it. In fact, she was immediately concerned for the poor woman. A breeze of even moderate strength might see her dead from pneumonia or snapped clean in half as though by an ogre's fist. What business the brith had carrying a sword was none of her's, but she worried nonetheless.

A tiefling of immense stature. It was not often that Annabella was made to feel small outside the jungles of High Mist. Not to say the feeling was unwelcome, quite the opposite in fact, especially when the cause was one as strikingly handsome as he. A number of thoughts crossed her mind, but she thought it best they be kept to herself... for now anyway. Instead, she took note of his rifle and two missing fingers and wondered if the firearm he currently owned was perhaps not the first. 

Lastly, a scarred mage. She assumed him to be the diplomatic type, what with him appearing to have constitution only marginally above the brith, but soon changed her mind at the sight of his magic. He had a simmering madness about him that put the monk on edge by instinct. She forced her mind to still as she reminded herself that an orc might cause the same reaction from others and not to judge others by their appearance.

Satisfied with her observations, she cleared her throat loudly from behind the bearded human.
[color=fff79a]“Doravok agh healvo, friends!”[/color] she greeted, wishing them all health and fortune in her native tongue, [color=fff79a]“I am called Annabella. Is there room for one more at your table?”[/color]
Her voice rang clear and true but carried harsh, accented consonants that knocked against her tusks as they passed her lips.