Quinn must admit her target has made a point to hide well, though her struggle was not helped by the fact that her mission now put her in opposition with the Mutilated Hand, the one international organization unrivaled in their spy networks.
And as good as they are at uncovering secrets, they're even better at hiding them. The cryptography as known today was practically invented by their members, the paranoid revolutionaries and anarchists hellbent on destroying all monarchies from the face of the continent.
Still, they will not directly oppose her and ruin their working relationship forever. With that in mind, Quinn turns to a lesser alternative, one she has prepared in preparation for a day like today.
Certainly, they're not equal in their intelligence with the Mutilated Hand, for they never do wet work, but their information should suffice. Or it should be if the chapter she chases is not of the Order-Militant of the Great Mother's Temple.
This means she has no sketch of her, or her rank on the temple hierarchy; nor does her client, who has no other details but a name whispered by the rebels like a prayer, as if she's sent by heaven itself.
An information not useful to her who also heard the name through the same kind of people: the desperate and angry in the West. They refer to her as a saint in the making, and if Quinn has anything to do with it, she will make sure the woman becomes a saint, by hastening the only qualification left for her target to fulfill.
And she shall do it with limited information if she must. She knew the name of the company she was attached to and the fort they'd built and defended for the past year, it should be enough.
Seeing no more point in dawdling, she left the orphanage and the children who almost tempted her to prolong her stay. Almost.
Her destination is deep into contested territories, and though sometimes that would mean being careful and creative in her approach, it was not the case this time. She wanted her enemies and allies both to know she was coming for someone: no one but her and her client knew who her target was yet.
So, she nurtures trust between her and her target's allies. She pays them for passage and tells them half-truths to half-remember and report back to their commander, who is happy enough to take her money and explanation without further investigation.
After all, she and the rebels have worked together for the same reason before.
"Ah, murder!" she spoke aloud and alone. "It truly brings people together." As she finally laid eyes upon her destination after close to a fortnight of travel. It was worthy of having a fort in its name, with the parapets guarding it standing strong and imposing despite being made of something as flammable as wood.
For a moment, she considers how to get inside, into the encampments beyond the fortification beside the obvious. The beginning of a rather cunning and devious idea begins to take shape in her mind when not so far from her in the forest surrounding the battlements, she hears a familiar rustle of the bushes.
There's no wind, so it can't be a breeze. She sees no animal tracks nearby, so it was almost impossible for it to be a game or their predator, not this close to a large temporary settlement of people with weapons that are unafraid to use it.
Another person, then, she concludes as she pulls out her dagger with an impish smile plastered onto her face, excited to get some practice in before the real hunt begins. She raises the hood of her cloak, activating its magical effect.
Covered in invisibility absolute with her boots and years of training doing the job of covering her tracks accompanied by a final spell to reduce the sound she produces, Quinn proceeds.
She approaches the source of the sound with giddy excitement not dissimilar to a child opening a present. She doesn't believe there's danger in her way, and even if there is: she can handle it.
With that in mind and dagger in hand, she rushes out of the bush and—nothing.
As quick as her movement, is the sudden appearance of hesitance in her skull, visiting the whole of her body; halting her to a pause.
Why? She questions, and as if to answer: the source of the sound turns to face her.
She has a basket in hand, half filled with medicinal herbs. Her habits are a tad dirty from the soil, her hands are in no better condition. Yet, the woman was unconcerned of such a thing.
Her face—marred by fire—is set in a stony mask of focus, beautiful under the moonlight that manages to pierce through the woods' canopy.
Quinn smiles when she hears the word echo in her mind. The woman is gorgeous indeed, someone she will certainly try to persuade to spend a night with her after she's done with the job.
A night Quinn is sure to be pleasant, especially when she imagines those—Quinn's train of thought was cut short when the woman looked straight at her, locking their eyes together.
For a moment, Quinn believed she had been found out, followed closely by an unwilling yet pleasant observation she made of the woman: her eyes are a pair of stunning sapphires. And to even be looked by it, send shivers down her spine.
It doesn't surprise her, then, when she's a little disappointed that the woman did not look at her but at the herbs behind her.
The disappointment doesn't last long. For when the woman moves past her, Quinn manages to catch her sweet and intoxicating aroma—not her body odor, certainly, but not a perfume either—it was heavy and lingering far longer in the air than it should be, but still fresh with a note of citrus somehow.
Whatever it is, Quinn wants more of it the same way she wants to hear the woman's voice. And considering she has no desire to become a mere stalker, she finally decides to confront the woman.
Easily, she drops the hood of her cloak and invisibility. Then, with her most charming smile: "Quite late for foraging, don't you think?" she begins a conversation.