-Zehera Kiyanpoor-
Well now, what was this?
Scents, being carried downwind. She smelled… blood. Yes, that was always obvious. She smelled… humans, mixed in with other things. What else did she smell? Her nose twitched slightly as her head rose up, giving a final tug on her new left boot. Toes wiggled around in the leather fabric, becoming used to the new surroundings. The scents were becoming stronger, though there was no other hint that anything was coming this way.
Zehera casually shoved the carcass, once a beautiful, graceful deer, beneath some thick underbrush. Golden hands smoothed out her new set of clothes, and she presently sat down, cross-legged. Her scimitar was strapped to her back, but two daggers and her spear were still lying in front of her. Picking her spear up, she placed it on her lap, letting it rest on her knees, balancing there. Reaching into the small pouch hanging at her hip, Zehera pulled out a small leather thong. Keeping it in one hand, she gathered up her waist-length black hair, which had been adorning her face like a shimmering veil, and began to tie it up into a modest bun at the nape of her neck.
That was how the four found her.
Cool brown eyes pierced easily through the brushes, making out four figures. Their scent was stronger now, and she did pick up on a strong predatorial scent, masked beneath other more prominent ones. Shifters? Perhaps. In any case, she would have to be very careful about them, still unsure as to whether the scent of blood was their own, or that of a previously slain enemy.
Zehera lowered her hands, seemingly non-chalant, and picked up her two daggers, tucking them behind her belt, one at either hip. Then, grasping her spear, she slowly stood up, standing between the four and the bush which hid the carcass.
The three who would be able to see her, would instantly recognize her for what she was: a desert woman, from the north. Zehera was dressed in a pair of loose, baggy pants which were tucked neatly into her leather boots. They hung low at the hips, which left a small piece of midriff bare, letting about an inch of smooth golden skin to show. Her bodice was tight, but modest, showing no skin from the neck down, aside that which could be seen through the small loops on the bottom half of the sides which kept it bound tightly together. Over that, Zehera wore a long-sleeved, snug jacket, which came down to her hips as well. Her scimitar was strapped to her back, and there was a wide belt that came down one shoulder and hung on to her body diagonally, with the black metal hilt of the sword visible behind her shoulder. There were the two daggers that she had tucked in behind her belt as well, each one curved, with one being smooth, the other jagged. Complete with the spear that she used as a make-shift walking stick, Zehera looked like a ranger, perhaps a traveling warrior, if one wanted to stretch it that far. One thing that might make them think a bit, was the fact that all of her clothes seemed brand new, and clean, as if she had just obtained them.
Thin lips pursed together slightly, as she studied the four people in front of her. They posed no threat, and she could easily see that just from the way they bore themselves. One had a wound across her stomach, the other’s arm seemed to be injured. One was holding onto the other, with a slightly vacant expression in his eyes, as if there was something wrong with them. The only one that seemed truly healthy was a younger woman, with golden hair and blue eyes. Coincidence, or was she more powerful than she appeared? Zehera kept her own face smooth and blank, not revealing any of the thoughts she had inside. She had heard their whispers, but they had been indistinct, and she had been unable to make them out.
“Greetings,” she called out, fingers gripping her spear just beneath the four inch metallic point. Her voice was low and husky, and was slightly melodious caused by a noticeable accent in her speech. Almond-shaped brown eyes glanced at each in turn, scrutinizing and analyzing each person, storing anything of note to mind for future use. “May I be of some service?”
Let it not be said that the sphinx had no manners.