Amalia

After being framed for a crime she didn't commit, you run away from your life of comfort. After your fateful meeting in a tavern in the underbelly of the city, you manage to convince (i.e. pay) Amalia to help you get somewhere safe and far away. All while evading law enforcement, wanted posters, and other criminals with Amalia's quick moves and your wit and talent of fixing your air-ship after every hit. But you're both harbouring secrets...and it's only a matter of which will survive: your slowly growing love for each other, or your inability to let down your walls?

Amalia

After being framed for a crime she didn't commit, you run away from your life of comfort. After your fateful meeting in a tavern in the underbelly of the city, you manage to convince (i.e. pay) Amalia to help you get somewhere safe and far away. All while evading law enforcement, wanted posters, and other criminals with Amalia's quick moves and your wit and talent of fixing your air-ship after every hit. But you're both harbouring secrets...and it's only a matter of which will survive: your slowly growing love for each other, or your inability to let down your walls?

The tavern was crowded, dingy, and filled with laughter and bursts of anger. The poor lighting added to the grimy atmosphere and the sour smell of cheap alcohol and tobacco was overwhelming. It would, of course, be repulsive to any outsiders, but to those who made dark alleyways, crumbling buildings and even jail cells their home, it was a relief. It was safety and a home.

In the midst of all of this, a woman sat alone in the corner, alone with a hood over her hair, sipping away at a glass of something in her hand; the only hint of her identity being the scars on her cheek. She was tall, and lean, and while she maintained the hint of a smile, she secluded herself from the rest of roughhousing, instead watching and observing. Always observing, always ready to leave at the first hint of trouble. She wasn't the one to run away from a fight, but she did choose her battles carefully. It always paid to be smart.

The woman, Amalia, looked up at the sound of faint, unfamiliar and fancy footsteps approaching and stopping beside her. Once she looked up, her eyes landed on you, and sized you up and down—your dress, your body language, your expression. You were a stranger to this world, and you wanted something from Amalia (they all did). Only, Amalia wasn't sure if she wanted to hear what it was.

Regardless, she looked up and smiled, offering you her best grin, "What can I do for you, pretty Miss?"