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Beheaded by Peasants

As Alana approached, a single beastman detached himself from the crowd. He was larger than the others and wore only a long, red tabard that left his huge arms bare. His lower jaw protruded far beyond his upper, giving him a pugnacious look, yet his black hair was meticulously combed, shot through with braids ending in red beads. A three-fingered hand rested on the hilt of an oversized longsword.

Alana had always imagined the beastmen as amalgamated monsters, full of wolf parts and snake scales and other recognizable horrors. These were nothing like that.
The Crimson Kestrel

Her mountain of skirts fell away, and their pocket and petticoat undersides revealed her arsenal: grappling hooks, spider climbing-legs, a buckler that doubled as a bit of mid-line accent on her corset. Fashions this year had left Ivette room to arm a platoon if the need arose, and she and her mentor had refined her skirts into the perfect carrying system. She could not sit, but really, who but old dowagers and incurable bores ever sat at an imperial fête?

It was a funny thing how the same dance twice at a party bored her, but even the hundredth time, this lean-out over a dozen storeys of elegant suicide sent her heart up into her throat.
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They slipped through a gap in the fence. It was like leaving an enchanted circle.
From the Archives:
The Jewels of Montforte, Pt. I
Absinthe felt embarrassed. There was a part of him that wanted to fit in with this sort, these landed gentry.