She stood at an average 5’5, though that still made her taller than Bartholomew, something that the mage never let the rogue forget. She was clothed in a blue and gold robe that fit her body snugly, especially across the chest where the cloth molded to her D-Cup breasts lovingly, part of her bust showed off by the low neckline. She carried a staff as tall as she was and knew how to use it, though like all mages her main weapons were her spells, her personal favorites being fireball and icebolt. The petite woman was an all-around cheery person, appreciative of a good joke and always ready to tell them, she could also hold her liquor like no one else Hazel knew. This of course combined with her other mentioned traits always made her extremely popular with any dwarves they came across. Everyone had their vices, however, and after some careful observation Hazel had discovered Beatrice’s: the mage was a slut, plain and simple. Every time they stopped at an inn or bar, the mage always. The chair this day she would take as her own. His head was slumped forward, as it did when he’d taken too much wine. She watched for a moment, praying for his chest to rise in a snore, but she knew it couldn’t. In her shock, she noted the impossibility of her breathing as four arrows were lodged in his chest, pinning him to the simple ash-wood chair. Juniper sprang forward in attempt to rouse him. It was this wailing that caught the attention of the attackers. They stood out of the glow of the ruined fire, their scarred leather armour streaked with blood. They paused for a moment, their feet crunching the last of the scattered embers before moving in. Juniper didn’t resist much as they caught her, she was in too much shock to notice they weren’t friends. Only when they led her to the outskirts of the encampment where she saw three cattle cages did she wake out of her stupor. Inside each cage were people she knew. In the closest one she caught the eye of her cousin, heavily pregnant.
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