With the swift movement of the cowl, a resultant puff of travel dust rose and for a brief moment, framed the slender face that remained down turned, though the eyes were fixed upon the chief’s face. Humanoid, true. It seemed human really. If it were a tad slender, then so be it. But not all humans were of the stocky variety. And if it seemed sexless, that might have come from what seemed to be its apparent youth. Still, it wasn't apparent that it was elvin or dwarf or some other variant thereof.

It was the eyes which were of the greatest distinction upon that travel weary visage. They were large, canted, and of an almost violet color, like a fish deep within a moonlit pool, flecked in silver. The pupils inside sunk into pinpoints with the onslaught of light and fingers curled into palms as the figure jerked slightly at being revealed without permission.

It’s not as if they know your customs, Alkin, the voice warned.

Lips which had once been just this side of thin, were thinner due to illness and lack of water. They were as pale as the face which also seemed gaunt, triangular to fit both small mouth and largish eyes. A slender nose, complete with light scar across the bridge and a gentle shift in trajectory indicating a break in the past, marred the mostly unlined face. Atop it all, crowning with a glory that seemed almost atypical, despite nothing about the face being typical, was a great mass of raven curls bound at the small ears and tumbling about the nape of the neck, then bound with a leather thong which encircled the rest of the mass down into the back of the cloak and out of sight. In the curls were twigs and leaves and dust, all more than likely from whatever tussle had left marks upon the creature's face and neck.

It may have been a comely face before the bruises and scar had marred it. As it was, it was a hungry face to fit a gaze which wanted more than just food. Something about the entire being's stance bespoke a haunting.

But as to sex or race, there was little to tell. The figure’s lips curled in what could have just as easily been a snarl as a smile and the figure’s head dropped into a bow that was neither completely mocking nor completely deferential.

"Creative havoc, I’m afraid," the voice warbled higher, could have easily been feminine or that of a child, but for the husky undertones to it. "I was run aground on my way to Jarrol by a group of…" the waiter paused, unsure of if it should say what they were or not, "hounds."

Hunters. For the hunted. "I had not meant to remain. I still do not mean to do so. It may be best for all concerned if you would let me go on my way. I am heading nor-" and then the figure was bent over double by another coughing wrack.

No sooner was one fit past than another trailed in, this one weaker but more due to the weakness of the lungs. When finished, the creature spat on the ground. Dusted eyes stared at the blood mottled spot and then sighed.

"I have sought one of my own. I felt it right that he had come this way. I never intended to come through your lands but to skirt them. However, upon landing, I was found by your… illustrious warriors," and the figure took great care in keeping all judgment from speech, instead, those strange eyes danced up to lock onto those of the leader's there.

"And from there, one could say, sprung my creativity. I was trespassing, you see. And I would not answer questions."

Yet the questions were answered now. At times, it paid to answer those who held one’s life in the balance. There was little reason for anything less than half truths and the least information as possible.

That gambit did not come from me. I was always a proponent of speaking all to all. It might behoove you to do this here. Though - no, by the look of him and the way the others react, maybe… you might want to tread carefully.

In reaction to the voice, the waiter’s mouth quirked. It wasn’t always right, was it? Figment of imagination or not.

__________________

‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis