"So," the girl says, "you wish to know of my past?" She takes a drink from her mug and stares thoughtfully at the wall. After a few moments of pensive silence, she speaks again, her voice quiet. "I don't know who my parents were. I'm told they were from Tol Honeth. My father was supposedly a merchant." She pauses again, draining the last of ale from her mug. She gestures for a refill, then speaks again. "They were killed, my parents, by a band of thieves whiles we were travelling from one city to the next. I was very young, perhaps three years old. I guess I wandered around for a few days before a kindly old woman found me. It's a wonder I wasn't killed by wild animals, or starvation." Her mug refilled, she takes a deep breath before continuing. "The woman's name was Esama, but I called her mother. She recognized me as the daughter of a Tolnedran merchant who had passed her home frequently on business. She knew only that my father was a merchant, kind, strong and loving, and that my mother had been beautiful beyond words." The girl's eyes cloud over for a moment as she stops speaking. Her mug having been drained again, she again motions for a refill. She looks up, her eyes clear now, hard and angry. "Mother was killed, poisoned when I was fourteen. I never found out who did it." She looks around the bar, as if for the first time noticing the other patrons. A few at the tables around her have ceased their own conversations and are listening intently to her story. She doesn't acknowledge any of them, and doesn't appear the least bit shy about telling complete strangers her story. Draining her half-filled mug with one swallow, she looks at you, her rust-colored eyes clear and unwavering. Picking up her empty mug, she stands up. It's obvious she's finished talking to you. You're sure she hasn't told you the whole story, but don't know if you should ask her to continue. She walks to the bar, and talks to the barkeep for a moment. Then, full mug of ale in each hand, she comes back to the table. Placing a mug in front of you, she takes her seat and sets her own mug down. She looks for a moment as if she's about to begin speaking again, but hesitates. Looking down at her hands, she speaks, so quiet you have to lean closer to hear her. "I killed a man once. It was perhaps a year after I'd left Mother's. He approached me and wanted to buy me." She looks up, her eyes troubled. "I didn't know at the time it was the custom in the land I was in. So I stuck my dagger in him. He bled for a long time before he died." Her hands shaking slightly, she picks up her full mug and drains it in one swallow. The barkeep, after shaking his head slightly, sighs and sends a refill to the table. "I felt bad about it. I even tried to help him. He died in my arms." The shocked silence at the surrounding tables was almost palpable. She smiles wryly. "I don't know why I'm telling you this." She looks at her newly filled ale mug. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything." She looks at you. Her face reveals nothing of her emotions, but in her eyes a battle rages. "I'm sorry," she says again. She stands up, her last mug of ale untouched. She looks at you one more time, then walks out the door, the dark of night swallowing her up. A hush had fallen over the tavern, but as the minutes tick by, conversations start back up, ale mugs are filled and coins clink as they change hands.

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