Silverlight Terrace her collars of the moonshine's watery beams

The shadow smells of Moonspear. At first, Megara thinks it the young woman who had greeted her at the base of the mountain on her first visit, but upon further inspection, the differences make themselves clear. She is older, more seasoned, the various scars over her body gleaming silver, knifelike, in the moonlight.

She cuts a fearsome figure in the night, and Megara is more than intrigued.

Good evening, the rogue greets, her voice husky but pleasant enough. What brings you off your mountain tonight? Out for some stargazing. . .or soul-searching? Her indigo eyes rise to meet the woman's green, gimlet and questioning.