For the longest time, Sabal Celligwen had traveled the vastness of the wayward Commonlands. They were relatively peaceful compared to her homeland and, surely, the lands that lay to the west where beasts that the underworld itself spat out in repulsion roamed. Sabal did not fear these creatures, no, for one who dwelt in unending night for decades, in a stone box... One forgets things. Forgets names, faces, self. One might even lose ones mind after some time... Pale-gray fingers, an index and middle, dipped lightly into white, gooey paint, lifting a bit to a face, the same dull gray color. The white paint went on smooth, covering what little skin had been left exposed. As white as virgin snow with whimsical shapes strewn about in black, Sabal's face was that of a true trickster. Silly, whimsical, marked by a signature, seemingly permanent ear-to-ear smile.
"Let the games begin, so that we may play and sin," She put the small case of paint away into an open backpack and closed the leather bag, swinging it back around and putting arms through both straps, "For after the adventures start, I get to tear things apart," Sabal giggled with delight. She had been talking to herself, under her voice, in whispers, the entire time and giggling or outright laughing almost on the hour. Snickers, chuckles, and cackles slipped past the joker's lips in short bursts, her large mask and hat jingled when her small frame shook from the more violent fits of unnerving laughter. However, for all her eccentrics, Sabal brought a very impressive, very useful set of skills to the table. In another life, where she was a little less insane and without the desire to smear paint over her face, the young dark-touched Drow might have been a diplomat or politician. The ability to manipulate words, molding fine linguistic pottery out of the clay from her lips was an art she had begun long ago. Speaking was an art, and if practice made perfect, she should have been perfect by now...
"Oh me, oh my, what a wonderful surprise! All this ruin and rubble under sunlit skies. If there are any alive maybe they have stories to tell, about Orcs that kill and Orcs that smell..." Her eyes forward, Sabal had taken to walking in front of the group, moving her arms in a constant motion that mimicked soft waves on the ocean and taking exaggerated, long steps like a child avoiding cracks on the ground, "What do you all think, what should we do? Dojin's Mill is up ahead and I think we should go through," The laughter given after this last remark made it no less a serious suggestion. Sabal figured it was probably best to scout out the town first for survivors who could possibly give account, information. Was it five orcs or thirty? Were they just pesky brigands or was there a tribal warlord at the head? In the underground kingdoms, information was as great a weapon as a finely crafted blade, and, as far as Sabal could tell, the same could be said up here in the light.
The stories of the Drow working with or even providing for the Orc had obviously reached the young dark-touched, but she seemed almost... Ignorant to the rumors. Suspicions by those in the Commonlands to the gray-skin did not affect her in the slightest, she greeted everyone with grins and giggles. In her mind, all creatures sort of just meshed and mended and twisted together into one great, colorful audience. Racism, bigotry, ignorance... All just subjects to crack a smile over. Then again, didn't everything fall into that category? If you couldn't laugh at it or laugh with it, what was the point?