Fairspell Meadow you were caught in the crossfire of childhood and stardom

Even when the woman turned to meet him with words that broke like ice from her lips, he showed no shame. Instead he found strange satisfaction in her cool reception; he was certain he could have tempered her, with a display of gentle civility -- and he would remain a gentleman, in conduct toward her -- but he was tired of walking on eggshells, and skirting around like the world would rupture if he let his actions bleed without thought of consequence. For once he wished simply to be, and so, he would.

As it were, he had no ill-intent; he stopped outside her claim. He dwarfed her, but her presence made her feel large. "Just curious," he said, with a cursory glance toward the meadow -- yet his attention was more taken her face. The shadows obscured the full depth of her scarring, but he could see small portions of her teeth within the darkness, exposed and glinting in the twilight. The sight disturbed him, not because of the scarring, but for the history the wound seemed to speak.

"Actually, I'm looking for someone," he continued, his voice collected, and unbetraying of the thoughts he kept careful tied within, "Small, pale, with a head as black as the night," and with a heart just as tainted, "Is any of that familiar?"