((Alright, Shadow, let's see how this goes. I have a couple of things to bring up, and if you wish for me to do an edit, by all means I can
First off, I'll say that Daga knows Morticia's name, but he'll call her Joleene, since that appears to be the name she is going by. Everything else will be in the post, and I can and will edit if necessary. *rubs hands together* Alright, time to work the magic))
The wind was rather lively as
Daga Simolen made his way through the streets of the village, his cloak flapping. It was cold out, and the air smelled of salt, something he personally enjoyed. The ring on his left finger - a black, plain ring inscribed with ancient runes on the inside as well as out - felt like a band of ice, but he was not aware of it. Nor was he aware of his long black hair continuously falling back in front of his face in the shadowed oval of his hood, or of the ongoing squint his eyes had taken in the direct wind.
Daga's right hand, in a glove of black unlike his bare left hand, remained on the hilt of his longsword, scabbard and hilt alike wrapped in black cloth, the same color as the cloak about him and the clothes beneath him. It it were not for the shadowed face that observed the world as he walked from within the hood, he would have appeared with the likeness of Death himself. Black was a color favored by Daga, a color that represented the shadows and the night. He did not take it to be as of evil, but rather, as of stealth and secrecy. He had a dark personality, and a dark past, both full of secrets that only he knew in entirity.
The small tavern was just ahead, it's windows greeting him with their plesant light from within. Climbing the stairs and crossing the porch, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, pulling his cloak along so to not catch it in the retreating door. Glancing about, the common room regestered in his mind; he had been there before. Scanning the faces, his eyes fell upon Morticia Fatale, an assassin whose path crossed with his own many years prior to the present day. Silently, he made his way to the table at which she sat with others, and took an empty chair. He did not wait to be invited to the table, nor to be seated. He did things the way he wanted around her, though she could bend him to her ways if she wished it. More powerful than his sword or even his knowledge of the magic arts, she knew something deeper, something that stirred people's souls and turned them to move in her own game. She was an assassin afterall.
((Alright, there you go. All of the detail I gave about her was what he thinks of her, based upon his past experience with her))
