[[OOC: Feel free to join in, if your story may touch this one ... players are always welcome ]]
They were at it again, the mercenaries slicing through the poorly defended front lines. Raven snorts, 'front lines'. She watches dispassionately as the defenders are pushed to the gate before the Heb Kap garrison barely manages to repulse the mercenary attackers. She had been high on the ramparts and in the scaffolding picking off the unwary in the past days. They were learning her range. Still, more than few had carried away a black fletched arrow. It was irritating that the mercenaries left no bodies behind. She didn't know if any had been kills and her arrows couldn't be recovered. The slim archer slides her hands over her finely crafted bow, a remnant of a former life, the rest of her gear eminently sensible and tightly lashed down. Sensitive fingers check for any flaws, the bowstring would need replacing soon.
The lines shift and the enemy comes back in to her range. She flits across to a better location, eyes picking out the details. She slides her ivory thumb ring in to place.
There he was, the Captain on his barded Shemite mount. She stretches, relaxing for a moment and then in one smooth motion draws. If she could take out the head, the body would fall, or at least falter. Mercenary troops weren't known for their intense loyalty. And there was a good chance the second in command would not be quite as canny as the Captain.
A grunt of frustration escapes as the man swings his charger away and signals to his troop to withdraw. She eases her pull on her bow, slipping the arrow back in her quiver. Damn. A finger count of the remaining arrows tells its own depressing story. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Only two of her own arrows remained, fletched with eagle feathers, the shaft cured in offal and flawlessly straight. It would take time to make new ones. The scavenged arrows would do, but they were a poor substitute. They were made for shock troops firing en mass, not accuracy. She catalogs the supplies and the time it would take to make her own. There were plenty of vultures around to strip of tail feathers, but she would have to venture out into no mans land to recover whatever shafts and arrow heads she could. Decent wood wasn't easily found in the desert.
The dust rises from the withdrawing troop as it winds toward the Caravanserai. The groans of the wounded and dying drift up to her perch. The healers warily leaving the protection of the walls to administer either a god touched heal or the coup de grace. Too many of the latter. She drops down landing lightly next to a large soldier, punching him in the chest to get his attention. The man looks down and she gestures for him to take her to the Heb Kab Chieftain.
"You ain't goin' No where" the giant man roars at her, the stench of his breath causing her to take a step back. She glares back at him, her fingers flying as she tries to communicate. She had to get closer to the mercenary camp. After far too much time, the Chieftain finally grunts his assent and waves her away. It takes a while to get past the pickets, but with some wriggling and a great deal of extremely slow and careful crawling, she finds a good spot. There. By the oasis.
Shock drills her in to place. She knows the woman. That shock of silver hair, the rampant snake tattoo. 'She's dead' the words whisper in her mind. Careful not to move, she inspects them both, catching a slight ripple on the edge of her eyes. They had another watcher. She silently chuckles. Who is watching the watchers. She looks good, I wonder who her master is? Surely, not the Captain. If it were she would have him twirled around her pinky by now. No, he's playing his own game' ... the thoughts tumble one faster than the next as she watches, automatically cataloging the timing of the caravans and the shifts in the wind as the day progresses. 'Perhaps ...' she muses 'perhaps when he leaves here. They are usually very tired after that one gets her way', with that at the top of her thoughts, Raven begins the painstaking process of backing out, taking advantage of the deepening shadows and mindful of the third set of eyes across the water.
A higher perch, a good view and while at the edge of her range, there were several good withdrawal routes. It will do. She peers back at the Oasis checking on the Captain's location. About 450 bow lengths. A little too far. But ... Raven rocks back on her heels. Then feels for her best arrow. He was walking away. The courtesan left behind, and by her body language, distraught. This man needed to be killed. Any man that could do that to that one was far too dangerous. 'Come closer' she whispers in her mind. 'That's it, just by that tent' ... 'now talk to your man' ... 'just a little further'
Raven straightens, the compound bow pulled back, arrow perfectly set. He's at the absolute edge of her range, the evening breeze steady. It was worth the shot. She breathes in and releases sending the arrow on its way, then smoothly turns swarming up the escape route, not waiting to see if it hit. Speed, not stealth was important now.
She would know soon enough. Besides, she needed arrows and there was no moon tonight.