Outside the woman's door came accelerated stomping as someone large somehow gained momentum running up the stairs. The door was pushed open, the lock having already been picked by the would-be rapists, by the fat innkeeper.His pasty face turned paler when he saw the interior. It was a cold night but suddenly he was sweating.
"Sweetpigshit!" he gasped, uttering the strange curse of the locals. The denizens across the river were said to eat candied pork droppings, at least that's what they said this side of the river. "What happened here?"
"Hello, Fatts," the woman smiled softly, using the mans name with due familiarity as she went to cleaning her blades on the cloth protruding from the man's waste. Apparently this was not so unusual a situation, though trouble is trouble all the same. "They thought to stick it in me, but they were base and crude, lost their head over a pretty ass so I had to stick it in them first... Was it good for you too, boys?"
Stepping over a corpse she kicks the head toward Fatt's feet. He groaned. She could not stay here that night, too many people had seen her come in. She was hard to miss carrying two blades of cold steel, two eyes of cold death and one rockin ass radiating hot sex. Most woman in this part of the land were either inbred nobility or haggard peasant folk worked to the end of ugly and beaten by their disease ridden husbands to the point of monstrous. And that man had been trying so hard not to look at her. Men around here were either to cravin or too crude to struggle over the impropriety of oggling a bit of fresh flesh. The woman's lip turned up as she shut the door behind her, leaving Fatt's to the mess she made. His own fault for providing such lax security to his patrons. Still, he was a good man and not for the first time the woman regretted the trouble she so often brought to his establishment.
In the common room she paused by the dwindling fire, now just embers, to think. The room was empty and silent save for the crackling of the logs and the drip-drip-drip of a loose tap. Drip. Drip. Splat! A drop landed on her cheek and she stepped back, brushing away a wet spot and staring at the floor where a puddle of blood began to materialize as dark, red juice began to seep through the cracks in the floor above. The inn wasn't called the Leaky Keg for nothing.
She was just about to make her departure when a voice called out of the far corner, where shadow obscured a lurking form with piercing blue eyes. "The Black Fox, I presume? Somehow I thought you'd be taller..." It was him alright, and there beside him was a long, naked blade shoved straight down the nape of some sluggard's neck as he knelt in grim mockery of prayer.