[ the girl appears young enough, that's certainly true. fifteen - maybe sixteen, on a good day. her figure's not quite as petite as it once was, but the telltale signs are all there: cheeks that haven't quite lost their baby fat, a sense of style that looks more fitting for a young teen than a young woman.

and then she speaks, and the illusion might as well have crumbled into dust. ]

Bottomfeeder? My, that's quite the long word for someone with your faculties. Consider me impressed.

[ her voice is sharp and precise, with a lisp from her childhood that's receded some but never quite given up. she speaks far too calmly for a girl facing down a mob; her voice is cold and imperious, her back held straight without any sign of flinching. and perhaps most importantly, she doesn't even make a single attempt to run. ]

Why don't you run along now, hmm? I'm not in the mood to deal with you blood-drunk wastrels tonight.