War of the Lost Kingdom

A thin human woman with cool porcelain skin steps off the mutomica. Tinges of pink shade her lips and the outer corners of her eyes, while wire-rimmed reading spectacles sit low upon the bridge of her nose. Her black hair is tied back into a short bun, leaving the remaining length cascading down her back. Ornaments of gold and ivory are affixed to thin braids that hang before her ears, the only jewelry that seems to adorn her person save for the loop of woven cord around her wrist, with threads of reflective gold shimmering between red strands.

Contrary to the rough-and-tumble look of rugged sellswords, she carries a refined appearance in her meticulously-arranged and layered attire. Her golden brocade robes are edged in a deep vermilion and fold at the waist under a wide sash, and the long sleeves practically hide her gloved hands. A diaphanous outer robe lies open with threads of quicksilver coursing down her arms like falling rain. Underneath these robes is a layer of white silk that rises high upon her neck, pinned at the collar with tortoise shell.

She is geared for travel, though it is apparent that she hasn't done much of it. She slings a small chest of black lacquered wood and gold decoratives over her shoulder, the newly-bought case still possessing the polished sheen of having been on the shelf instead of the wild. A bedroll and blanket are rolled tightly between the long handles, and a coil of rope is draped over one side.

Perched upon the chest is a tiny burrowing owl with long legs. His mottled brown and white feathers ruffle as the chest is jarred with motion, and his yellow eyes are half-lidded with indifference.

"We are here, Hu," the woman says to the owl, her voice toned with the clarity of a mountain spring. "Xiao Zifu has arrived in Drathis."

...too busy nursing his hangover, Docanter Balanitis overshoots the last step and falls flat on his face.

Picking himself up and dusting himself off he mutters a few expletives and then shouts some more at a couple laughing civilians.
He's a human, standing around 5' 10" and weighing around 130 lb, not much of it muscle. He looks to be in his early 30s with a weathered pale face, dark black hair and a short beard below a modest handlebar mustache. His build implies he's better off leaving the adventuring to other taller, larger men; but his dark eyes tell the story of a man that would fight death itself, regardless of the outcome.

Scale mail armor covers his torso and lies underneath a long black travelers cloak with a kite shield strapped to his back. The shield bears the symbol of Thotan, God of Life and Death: a sickle crossed with the wing of a bird. His backpack is slung over one shoulder and appears to have rope and a flask secured to the sides. As he stands up on his well worn boots, his Onyx gemstone necklace pops out from underneath his armor, gleaming dully in the sunlight. A flat affect returns to his face as he begins to move along these familiar streets.

"I forgot how much I hate this place...too many people." he mutters in a deep, gruff baritone.

The mutomica slews to a halt, and after the other two passengers, emerges a muscular and tall human woman with strong long limbs. She stands over six foot in height. Her long pale blonde hair is braided in two pigtails. Her cold blue eyes survey the scene like a predator sizing up her prey. The parted plaits frame her face with features typical of the wild tribes inhabiting the frontier north of Vyrissium: a fair complexion with high cheekbones, a thin nose, full lips and a strong square chin. She is young, no more than nineteen winters though her expression is grim and her tanned face bears the mark a lifetime exposed to the harsh elements of the wilderness.

Her armaments betray her as a warrior: clad in a worn chainmail shirt (likely looted from some battlefield); a longsword in its scabbard hangs by her left hip from a leather baldric across her chest; in her left hand she carries a red painted round wooden shield with a central metal boss and rimmed in rough rawhide; across her back a simple hunting bow with a deer hide quiver, from which pokes white fletched arrows; tucked into the belt at her slim waist is an exotic looking dagger with a curved blade; she clutches a sharp-pointed throwing javelin in her right hand; her iron spangenhelm is perched atop her overstuffed pack, which is strapped across her strong back.

Under her armor, the woman is clothed in a red woolen tunic, and dark brown leather pants tucked into knee high boots. Over all of this she wears dark hooded cloak pinned at her right shoulder with a simple copper pin.

Standing proudly, she raises her chin and calls out almost as a challenge "I am Greta Ingvarsdottir."

A young halfling has been traveling on the roof. He climbs down and then upon a nearby crane. A bit later, a big dog, a mastiff, has been lowered down from the roof.

Some local workers confront him for using their crane.
Gentlemen, you don't scare me, I have faced much bigger opponents... he tossed his green cloak over his shoulder, revealing a strutted leather armor with a big hunter crest on the shoulder. A pistol is visible on his belt and the hilt of a sword, pokes up at his back.
... And I still stand. So will I in a few moments, but if you do, is dependent on your next action.
The workers faulters, this halfling don't act like other halflings. He staired down several men twice his size. They mumbles something about asking next time and they part ways.
Come on Snubbs, let's go. The gear packed dog, follows it's master.

A tall, slender human, hanging right around six foot and a hundred and seventy pounds drops down to the ground. His boots have silver spurs, his clothes are a courtier's finery, his gloves are finely stitched leather with a silk shirt under his fine, hunter green coat. Long, scarlet hair hangs free in wavy tumbles down to his hips accentuating delicate features, making it unclear if he's a effeminate man or a masculine woman in men's clothes.

At his belt are two rapiers, one on each side, with a crossbow slung over his back. With a smooth, languid motion he sets a wide-brimmed hat on his head, running his fingers over the brim to straighten it. One hand reaches back to haul a bag out of the wagon, the right one dropping to rest casually on the hilt there. As he takes a moment to look around the city he starts to whistle quietly, a slow, mournful song.

Oh, are we 'ere? I step out of the cart, my stubby legs having difficulty. I readjust the crossbow on my wrist and high five my mage hand, named Palmer. What are we doing 'ere again? Can't remember. The black leather armor i'm wearing is clean and perfect, I pull up my hood and glance around at the other rabble I'm around. Anybody up for a card game? I ask, pulling out a deck and shuffling it.

If you look close enough, you'll see a dagger in each of my boots, right below where my rapier hangs off of my belt. I notice a tuft of my jet black hair poking out from my hood so I make sure to tuck it back under.

Zifu smiled politely as she stepped clear of the departing travelers. Noting the pall upon the crowd and their reaction to the arcane display, she kept her own hands to herself as she walked up to the guard to call his attention.

"Excuse me, sir?" she said, conveniently placing herself so that the guard would need to turn his eyes away from the spectral hand. "You mentioned a registration, yes? I'm sure you've been working very hard and are looking forward to a nice day's rest, so perhaps we should complete our business."

As if to continue her conversation with the soldier, Zifu said with an embarrassed laugh, "I, too, am quite tired from travel. I must admit that this is perhaps the first time I've managed to stand still since entering Drathis, and everything in the past few weeks has been quite a blur.

"Of course we are in Drathis. I meant to say that we have finally arrived at our destination, Vyrissium, as it is known. I thank you for your correction."

Inwardly, Zifu certainly bristled at her initial slip of words and considered the disheveled guard beneath her nose, but deigning acquiescence to the man's authority was a reasonable gesture, particularly for her first visit to the country.

Greta takes the lead as she moves to the front of the group with long strides. She looks back over her shoulder to her fellow mutomica passengers.

As a careless popcorn kernel lands on her shoulder from the peasants above on the ramparts, Greta shoots the offender a withering glare.