She sat, perched high above the streets, kicking her heels and sipping at a bottle of sour, ruby-red wine. Staring thoughtfully towards the wooded hills to the east through the lazily spiralling smoke from a thousand and one chimneys.
“Well,” she mused to herself, as she considered the tattered map that she’d relieved from that fat merchant two nights before “even if the tomb was plundered a hundred years ago or more, it’s still worth a look…”
She tossed the now empty wine bottle into the street below, and ignoring the outraged shouts, dropped through the open skylight into her rooms and (pausing only to grab her rapier and a small bottle of pear brandy) dashed down the rickety stairs. Many heads were shaken (and curses muttered) as her slim, fashionably clad form, vanished smilingly into the darkening streets. Nudging her way through the crowds, heading away from the brooding spectre of boredom, and towards the permanent gyre of carrion birds that hung over the Crucifixion Gate.