Ariella stops just outside the village and pulls a map from the worn leather pack she is carrying. She squints at the map, looking behind her down the road, then looks again at the village. Her pale brow furrows with concentration and she turns the map upside down, then to the left, then around again looking at it from all angles. Her full lips purse into a small pout and she messily refolds the map and shoves it back into her pack. Tossing back her waist length blond hair she shrugs the strap of the pack higher up on her shoulder and continues on. The village felt right to her, and thats what mattered the most.
Her pale green eyes meet the wary gaze of every person she passes as she makes her way deeper into the village, anxious to feel a connection with one of them, some sort of spark or surge of adrenaline that would be a sign that they were the object of her Queens attention. Hiding her frustration behind a bright smile to a passing store owner, she whispers a string of curses in the ancient tongue of her people, a murmur that might seem like nothing more then gentle humming and soft spoken words of love. The store owner looks at the small woman traveling alone and his brow raises, looking behind him, then back to her, sending her a parting wave as she follows the crowd.
So far Ariella had seen no one of interest, and she mindlessly follows the flow of people, stopping when she sees a small group walk into a tavern. She might as well start in here, she thought to herself, and crosses the street to stand in front of the door. A hand lifting up to outline a graceful trail along the gold set in the wood. "The Widowed Beauty," she says softly, liking the way the words dance across her tongue. An anticipatory smirk lifts the corners of her mouth as she pushes against the door and steps over the threshold, her gaze traveling across the room, meeting the gaze of all who looked up. Her smirk widens into a bright smile to everyone and tips her head gently forward in a silent greeting, her hair falling forward across her shoulders, the tips of her ears just visible through the thick mass of light blonde, almost white hair that tumbles over her slender shoulders and down to her narrow waist.
Not waiting to see if any return her greeting she weaves her way through the tables and finds a clear spot at the counter. Catching the barkeeps eye with a dainty flick of her wrist and a curl of a finger she motions for him and asks for a mug of hot tea. As he readies it she hops onto a stool and places her traveling pack on her lap, then rummages through it, pulling out a small clear vial with a thick golden liquid inside. The barman sets the mug in front of her and she opens the vile, letting a bit of the liquid drip into the steaming tea, only a drop or two, but no more. She tucks the vile back into her pack then swivels around on her stool, leaning back against the counter and studying the crowd, one slim leg crossed over the other, her foot bouncing with restless energy as she scans the crowd.