The tavern's sticky ale-stench clung to Nicole's tunic as she slouched over a corner table, pastel pink ponytails swaying with each irritated headshake. Her green eyes scanned a smudged city map through the smoke haze, tongue clicking against teeth. Fuckin' rat's nest. Five copper just for watered-down piss; they call wine here. "Oi barkeep!" Her rasp cut through the lute music, black choker bobbing with exaggerated exasperation. "Told you I wanted the cheap swill in the clean tankard this time!" She flipped a silver coin through the air with practiced disdain, the glint catching on her heart-shaped earrings. "Bloody robbery, this place." Her boot tapped an impatient rhythm beneath the table, iron reinforcements clacking against floorboards. The map's charcoal marks told a story of dead ends—X's through abandoned warehouses, circles around black market fences who'd laughed at her offers. One fingernail picked at the mole beneath her left eye. Should've gutted that informant slower. Shadow moves at moonrise, my pert ass— The tavern door creaked. Nicole's gaze snapped up, calculating green pupils dilating as they traced the newcomer's silhouette. Her tongue darted across chapped lips, thumb rubbing the empty space where her relic pendant once sat. Hmm. That one's got 'mercenary' written all over 'em...or 'desperate gambler'. Either spends the same as the other. She leaned back with forced nonchalance, cleavage shifting beneath her tunic's neckline as she raised her tankard. "Evenin', sunshine. You look like someone who knows which way a blade's edge faces." Her smirk widened, sharp as the daggers hidden in her thigh sock. "Fancy splitting sixty-forty on a little relic recovery? I provide the brains, you provide the... let's call it 'persuasion skills'."

The tavern's smoky air clung to Nicole's pink ponytails like a bad debt as she spread the stolen merchant's ledger across her sticky table. Fucking Miasma-addled bastard probably thinks he's safe playing swamp monster now, she mused, green eyes narrowing at the crude map she'd drawn in spilled mead. Her black choker dug into her throat when she leaned forward, cleavage pressing against the table's edge as she traced the contamination lines with a chipped fingernail. "Oi! You planning to hover there all night, mate?" Her voice cut through the tavern's din as she snapped her gaze up at the looming figure beside her. The heart-shaped earrings swung wildly as she jerked her chin toward the bench opposite. "Either sit or fuck off—can't concentrate with your shadow dancin' on my notes." She didn't wait for compliance, already slamming her boot heels onto the table's edge. The single black thigh sock stretched taut over her calf as she produced a dagger from her boot, its tip hovering over the map's inky blotch marking the Miasma surge. "See this shithole?" The blade tapped decaying parchment. "Needs someone stupid enough to wade through demon jizz with me. Got a relic to reclaim from some twat who thinks swallowing Miasma makes him invincible." A sly grin crept across her face when she flipped the dagger, offering the hilt across the table. Her other hand dipped into her tunic's cleavage, withdrawing a crumpled contract that smelled faintly of cinnamon and desperation. "Fifty-fifty split on whatever else we scavenge. You get your name in the history books—" The paper crackled as she smoothed it with palm sweaty from clutching her hidden coin purse all night. "—I get my fucking dignity back." Somewhere beneath the table, her left knee bounced like a caged lightning spell.

The caravan's awning flapped like a drunken bat in the midday heat, casting patchy shade over Nicole's wares. Fucking hell, these leathers better sell before I sweat through my tunic. She leaned against the counter, pastel pink ponytails sticking to her neck as a gnome inspected her "authentic dragonhide" gloves. "Thirty silver and I'll throw in a vial of wyvern piss," she drawled, picking at the mole under her left eye. "Perfect for keeping those beard mites away, eh?" The gnome scowled, his rust-colored whiskers twitching as Amillion clattered over, green golemboo claws full of coins. "Look lively, mate—customers aren't gonna rob themselves." A barrel-chested mercenary lingered by her relic replicas, callused fingers tracing the false dwarven runes. Nicole's cleavage glinted with sweat as she sidled up, black choker digging into her throat. "Careful, big boy. Last bloke who touched that without buying lost a finger." She nodded to Amillion's cross-patched eye, the golemboo chiming mournfully. The market stank of overripe mangoes and desperation. Her boot tapped a staccato rhythm against the caravan wheel, the green tunic riding up to reveal the single black thigh sock. Should've charged double in this tourist shithole. Across the square, a flash of silver armor made her gut clench—city guards or debt collectors? Didn't matter. Both meant trouble. "Oy, elf-tits!" She barked at a passing woman carrying firewood, gesturing to her discounted "enchanted" blades. "How 'bout trading that kindling for something that'll actually keep you warm?" Amillion squeaked in alarm as Nicole's hand darted out, snatching a copper from an urchin's sticky fingers. "Lesson one, squirt: never reach where I can see you."