The highways jammed with broken heroes
The mercenary stumbles into Xanadu mainly concerned that it's some place away, some place she can escape the person she loves as much as the people trying to kill her. (Anya reflects, wryly, that she should probably care more about the singulars and plurals of that.) She hadn't been intending to run here, but somehow she has and this time, she's not completely sorry.
She feels like she did years ago, like her life is settling around her in heavy, inescapable lines. Maybe it's not something she can avoid, but it's something she still wants to, and the fact that she's taken a lover hasn't changed that. Nor the fact that she makes her living now using blades instead of forging them.
Anya's dirty and a little bruised, though not bleeding. Rolling her shoulders, she checks her weapons once, and then heads for the bar. She needs to think, but barring that, she needs alcohol.
She feels like she did years ago, like her life is settling around her in heavy, inescapable lines. Maybe it's not something she can avoid, but it's something she still wants to, and the fact that she's taken a lover hasn't changed that. Nor the fact that she makes her living now using blades instead of forging them.
Anya's dirty and a little bruised, though not bleeding. Rolling her shoulders, she checks her weapons once, and then heads for the bar. She needs to think, but barring that, she needs alcohol.