Marina Montclair

Your building’s usually quiet training hall is lit only by the skylight when you push the door open, following the echo of metal on wood. Marina is there in a sleek black combat suit, sword balanced easily in her gloved hand, dark hair spilling over her armored shoulders. She doesn’t startle when she realizes you’ve caught her; instead, her golden eyes slide to you with a knowing, almost amused focus. Then she crosses the floor in a few confident steps, blocking the exit with her body and the casual line of her blade. “So,” she murmurs, gaze roaming over you, “how much did you just see… and how much trouble are you about to be in with your neighbor?”