One of Zoroka's eyebrows raised when the woman eyed her armor. So she assumed Zoroka had killed the dragon herself? She didn't; she had pulled it out of the cargo from one of the slave caravans she raided, but the woman didn't ask and she saw no reason to offer. She had not killed a dragon--yet. And as far as she was concerned, so long as they didn't try and kill her, she had no problem with their existence.
Experience had taught Zoroka to keep her distance, to let people make their assumptions. If they overestimated her, they tended to leave her well enough alone. If they underestimated her... well, her lips twitched darkly at the thought, that would serve, too.
The little time she spent with her mother's people, the shadow fae, taught her never to show weakness. Weakness spelled certain death. They were a proud race. Even when her mother was--
She stopped herself there. Scowling, she drank deeply of her whisky. If she had any hope of finding her mother, she might have to come across as a little less intimidating. Perhaps these people could help, if only she bothered to ask. To get her mother back again, she would move heaven and hell.
Tilting her chin up in a reverse nod, she said, "I'm Zoroka."
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