|Age||The barkeeper has decided the woman is somewhere in her early twenties.|
|Hometown||Ask the barkeep, maybe he knows.|
|Residence||Nothing of permanence, currently residing at the Hanged Man.|
|Behind the Mask|
Sitka slipped the coarse charcoal-colored robes over a similarly dingy gown and scooted back to the table to lace up her boots. Furniture was so useful at times like this. There. She clicked her heels together and picked up a brush from the table, attacking the snarls of her silver hair with the ferocity one usually reserved for enemies. Upon the hair's surrender, she doffed a well-worn and oversized black hat, thought for a moment, and cocked it to the side. If only I had a feather. Today was dedicated to people-watching, for how could one serve their clients without knowing their habits? But first, breakfast at the bar.
Current rumors state she is fresh from the Fereldan Wilds. Or was it the the Nahashin Marshes? The Donarks, maybe? Wherever it it, that woman definitely isn't from here.