[Anora Eventide]

"No, it's not a typical merlot, but I assure you it would still be pleasant to the palate of one who was not a connoisseur."
The man behind the bar paused, gathering mugs in his hands, "Lavender though, Miss? It's got flowers in it?"
This hasty description of the vintage made her mouth go into a line, but her even expression was quickly regained as she answered, "Not in the traditional sense."
"Well, Miss, I have to tend to these men and then we can talk some more about importing that wine."
The woman nodded and answered in a low purr, "Of course."

She glanced to the group that had disrupted her petition. As only a Daltinan woman could, she appraised their dress and posture in those few glances, gathering bits and pieces of information. Returning to her own business, she began to look through a velvet pouch she carried.

Anora did not look like the sort who could give Vincent any forbidden knowledge about infernal practices. Every inch of her bespoke comfortable origins and a prim sense of decorum, from her neatly tailored dress to her swept up coil of black hair. Even as she leaned forward onto the bar, her posture was regal. The only hint to any proclivity out of the ordinary was visible when she removed her lace shawl and neatly folded it on a chair.

On the smooth underside of her forearms were two small brands, no longer than her finger. Their outlines were crude but discernible in the scarred skin. One was half a heart dipping into the waving lines of a river, the other an elegant bell with a long handle.