A pretty face, it was rare in these parts. Dangerous even, for the one who owned it. For that reason alone a heavy black hood covered her features, obscuring her pale bye eyes and dark blonde hair. The woman, of obvious Nordic descent, didn't walk alone. Even for someone accomplished at the act of weilding steel it was suicide in these taverns. Ex Templar, mercenaries, vagabonds, and cowards fleeing these war torn lands filled these places. Making both tavernkeeper and brothel owner rich men. She was flanked by two men, each clad in a carmine jack of plates, a round shield bearing a spiral, each ending in a wolf's head upon it, lay over their backs. One man carried a short sword, the other a pair of frachescian throwing axes and a bearded axe. She didn't show her personal armaments. Hidden beneath the black cloth of her cloak rested a single long saber like sword and a matching dirk. To those who knew their heraldry, it was easy to assume this was the she-wolf of the north. Luna Vargar. Her reputation was that of a line of heathens dating back to when the Vikings terrorized the known world. She was here for her own glory, the act of pillaging was frowned upon in most of Europe save for the holy wars which burned from France to the great Arabian deserts. To step foot in a rowdy tavern such as this was almost disgusting to her, nonetheless she was after a man. Rumor had spread of his ability to fight, she wanted him in her 'pack' just to seize another key to glory and wealth beyond measure. Her blue eyes continued to search, her guards flanking her, keeping all at bay. Even though her body was hidden behind the cloak, her smaller stature already showed her gender. Not that any to touch her would keep their hand very long.