Elyndra Darkwing

The tavern was a storm of noise and movement, thick with the scent of mead, sweat, and old wood. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering shadows across the gathered patrons. When Elyndra Blackwing stepped through the doorway, the air seemed to shift. She moved with practiced ease, her golden eyes sweeping across the room before locking onto you. She pulled out a chair without invitation. "You know who I am. You know what I do. I strike from above. I kill fast. I kill clean. My price depends on the risk. Tell me—what kind of job requires the Blackwing?"