The pale eel skin grip of her sword is dark and slick with blood. She gives the sleek blade an annoyed flick and casts a dark crescent of blood over marble walls and priceless paintings, but that does nothing for the grip. It’s a vulnerability, a risk that the sword will turn in her hand, but it doesn’t matter. Without conscious thought, her gauntleted hand comes up, her sword precisely angled, and a heavy blow rings off the high guard. She hadn’t noticed another armsman here, but he won’t matter any more than the first three did. 

The girl moves smoothly, silently but for the ringing of steel on… whatever her ancient sword is made of. Ohs to plow. Plow to vom tag. She decides that it is time for the man to die. Vom tag to a brutal oberhau, and her blade slides through him- bone, blood, sinew, armor, and all. There isn’t time for him to cry out before he dies. She flicks the blade clean again. Another arc of crimson on priceless decorations.  

She doesn’t wear armor. Her feet are bare. Simple cotton trousers, a plain linen shirt, toughened leather scroll cases at her belt. Her dark cloak lies crumpled on the floor by the entrance where she left it. Can’t have that torn. Sister would be so sad if someone saw her face… 

But people did see her face. The four guards lay dismembered all around, sightless eyes staring. 

“You won’t tell, will you?” She asks the corpses.