Valor go Hunting, Ch. 1

CH. 1
Wander, whither, our fates do go

(Labeled art and Cover done by JackRip!)

The forest of Glenwoadeshire was ever a peaceful place, serene and bursting with life. Animals of all sorts gambled and frolicked about, the gentle breeze whistling down the slightly overgrown forest path. Short cobble-stone walls flanked it in various places, once a proper fence between the intrusion of civilization and nature, but now had either been worn away, torn down, or scattered throughout the years. Humans rarely came this deep into the woods, only ever the occasional hunter or messenger. Squirrels danced across the trees and between the branches, chasing one another's tails. A mother deer and her fawn grazed at the base of one of the mighty elders of the forest. A boar trundled past, snuffling for tubers in the dense undergrowth.

Keen eyes peered out from beneath a blanket of leaves and branches, harvested from the ground all around and built into a makeshift cover. Indistinguishable from the ground around it, the cloak blended in seamlessly as its occupant rarely even bothered to stir. Wildlife paid it no heed, barely even noticing the intrusion. Truth be told, they did not see this person as an invader at all, similar to them in enough ways that they knew they had little to fear. The fawn even nibbled at a few pieces of grass, not a foot away from them. Moving so gently and quietly that it would not stir the youngling, the hidden watcher gathered a small handful of sweetgrass from beneath itself and proffered it on a scarred, tough-skinned hand. The deer sniffed at it before plucking them from the palm as gentle as a whisper, soft lips tickling the warm skin.

The watcher smiled softly to themselves, the fawn sniffing their hand for more, but instead, they just retracted their hand and resumed their silent vigil. Brown, soulful eyes met yellow, predatory ones for a brief moment before the fawn's mother called and it scampered away. There was something in the air. Squirrels paused in their chase-games, the boar quickly trundled away, and the two deer loped off into the deeper sections of the forest. The source of their alarm came a moment later.

The steady clip-clop of shod hooves began to echo down the trail. The rattle and clatter of armor came not a few seconds later. A distant shape appeared over the rise of the forest trail. The eyes narrowed.

'Here we are,' the watcher thought. It scooted slowly back to its preprepared place near a fallen tree, gathering a line of cord in its rough hands and beginning to slowly tug it taut. Sharp ears flicked towards the advancing horseman, twitching with every step the mount took nearer to the trap. The rope snagged on its hook and caught, quivering softly in place as they tested it with a sharp nail. Nice and tight.

A few more steps, that was all that it would take. Just a few more. They plucked up their weapons one by one. It never hurt to be prepared...

***

Simon Tarthan raised a gauntleted hand to cover his visor as the bright sunlight glinted off of his bright, polished armor. The air was cool and clean, rich with life and possibilities. He could smell the verdant wildlife all around, hear the rustle of branches, and the tweeting of birds. Far off in the distance, he heard a wolf howl, joined soon by others of its kind. That made him smile. This was not a day to be alone. Unless that was the reason to be out here in the first place.

The castle could not compare to this. The air there was stuffy and stale, often accented by the bitterness of cologne or perfume, and the people even more so. The endless squabbling and tidiness, the pointless arguments, and never-ending competitiveness between his brothers. He loved them, dearly, but taking time for himself like this was the only reason he could stomach them. Things had grown more tense and irritable as of late, ever since Isidora had left to see her friends in Starhaven. They were all better when their sister was around. Father too.

Castle life was exactly like this armor. He inspected it. Bright, pretty-looking, strong, and putting out an air of grandness, of nobility. It safeguarded him from many hardships, but it was uncomfortable. Heavy. The weight of it bruised his shoulders, even with all of the extra padding that the royal armorers had sewn into it for him. He wouldn't have worn it at all, except for his overprotective father's pleading to do so. He would have preferred the simplicity of soft leather, supple furs, and rich cloth.

His horse nickered beneath him as they trotted together down his favorite hunting trail, and he patted the old stallion's flank fondly. "Doing all right, Theron?" he asked warmly, gentle with his iron-clad hand. The aged but still spritely warhorse had scars all over his flanks and neck, having served Simon's father faithfully through many campaigns. He was getting older, stubborn as when he was a colt, but his mane was growing grey, and his boundless energy coming in shorter bursts. "We can stop at the pond if you need a drink."

The horse made a snorting sound and picked up the pace a little more as if to say 'Are you calling me old?' which made Simon grin wider beneath his visored helm. Even now, after all this time, he could feel the incredible strength beneath the coal-black flanks, easily carrying around his armored weight. Still eager to be the proud bearer of the Tarthan royal family, even if Simon was the only one he trusted to ride him anymore.

A fresh breeze gusted down the trail and Simon closed his eyes, reveling in the scent and sounds. The dreams were getting worse, but being out and among nature helped clear his head. If only he knew what those dreams were about, always the same scene playing over and over before his eyes. He knew the players in it, the events, but he knew nothing of what it could all mean. He awoke nearly every night sweating, heart hammering in his chest, and reaching out with his hand, fingers clasping at smoke in a vain attempt to hold onto its already fading memory. If only he could think back, remember what he saw at night.

Abruptly, Theron snorted and stopped. His eyes opened again, disturbed from his reverie, and he looked down at the horse. Theron stomped at the ground, looking from side to side. His nostrils were wide and his ears fully perked.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stroking the horse's neck. "Something in the air?" The horse nickered again. His eyes glanced around the trees, the boulders, and bushes. Nothing stood out more than usual. He rode this trail multiple times a month. "Should we head back?" he asked.

Theron nickered once again, tail flicking, before slowly beginning to resume trotting forwards.

"All right, old man," Simon said, letting go of the reins and touching the hilt of the riding sword he carried. The three-and-a-half foot long blade bumped softly against his hip, not his usual weapon. A heavy-handed hatchet hung on the saddlebags as well. He wished abruptly that he had his bow or twinned swords that he had left back at home. The weapons weren't suitable for horseback, the blades too short to reach an opponent from this high up, and the longbow too tall to aim and fire whilst riding.

They kept walking for a few more paces before Simon's nerves tightened even more. Theron was nervous, and the experienced beast had been in many dangerous battles, ambushes, raids, and skirmishes. He trusted Theron's instincts. "Let's turn back," he muttered, tightening his grip on the reins. They did not have the time to react.

Theron's hoof caught on a hidden rope and there was a twanging sound from nearby. A rustling of leaves and creaking of wood was their only warning. A shadow fell across them both. Looking up, Simon had only time to yelp and dig his heels into Theron's flank to goad the stallion forward. They were just in time to avoid a falling tree, moderate in size and half-rotten, as it crashed down right where they had been. Theron whinnied and roared, rearing up onto his hind legs and causing Simon to jerk on the reigns and saddle hard to stay in it.

A whistling sound came then from up ahead just as Theron planted his forehooves back on the ground. Simon reacted without thinking, throwing up his left arm where was tied a small, sturdy buckler. A fraction of a second later, an arrow thudded into the polished wood and metal, piercing through it and sticking. He stared at the pointed, iron tip in alarm, glancing around everywhere. The visor obscured his vision somewhat.

"Nice reflexes!" called a gruff voice from up ahead. He looked in its direction and saw a hooded figure standing in the road directly in front of them, not thirty feet away. He was clad in a long cloak of leaves, twigs, and vines. Powerful, muscle-bound arms, patterned in blue as if covered in tattoos, pulled back on a short, recurve bow, another arrow already loaded and ready to fire. He could tell little about their assailant, as the face was completely covered. The clothes, from what he could see beneath the cloak, were simple: a dirty tunic and trousers, thick leather boots on the feet, and fingerless gloves on the hands.  The left, holding the bow, was reinforced across the knuckles and back with iron plates. The man was quite large, clothing straining across broad shoulders and arms.  The glint of gold shone at the right wrist as well as around the throat.

Simon turned Theron to face their attacker grimly, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. He readied himself to block the next missile. Beneath him, the warhorse snorted angrily, stamping at the ground with one hoof. They could close the distance in a few heartbeats, he knew. The archer would have one more shot before they were upon him.

"Don't even think about it!" the man called. "I can put this arrow through that visor without blinking. Throw down the weapons, and bags, and dismount the horse."

"What is the meaning of this?" Simon demanded, knuckles clenching.

The archer snorted with laughter. "I believe it's called a robbery!" he called back. "As in, I'm taking your things, you won't have them anymore, see where I'm going with this? Or is the horse the thinking one between the two of you? Should I negotiate with him instead?"

Tamping down his irritation and anger at being mocked by a bandit, Simon adjusted his seat on the saddle. "You are intruding on the lands of Glenwoad, realm of Renart Emmery Tarthan!" he announced. "This is no place for highwaymen, bandits, brigands, or marauders. Lower your bow and quit here now. I have no wish to kill you, but will do so if you do not comply."

The bandit laughed again, derisively. "Cute. You have balls, I'll give you that." The bowstring tightened audibly. The bow shook a little at the heightened strain, but the arm holding it did not so much as quiver. "I won't ask again, knight. Dismount, throw down the gear, and I won't shoot."

"Your bow is not meant to stretch that far!" countered Simon. "Much more and it'll snap on you like a twig. You must be new at this banditry game, otherwise, you'd have gone for a crossbow instead. Less skill is required, and it suits a man of ill means and morality as yourself. If you meant to shoot me, you'd have done so by now."

"Don't you lecture me on weaponry!" the man snapped. "One more move and it'll be the last you ever make! And who said I was a bandit?"

It was Simon's turn to laugh. "Do you need a vocabulary lesson? A bandit: a thief who takes from others by force or intimidation. A cowardly rogue who knows nothing of valor."   He drew the sword with a ringing sound from the scabbard. "I warn you now, and no more. Surrender and leave. I am not a killer."

His opponent did not move, only set their feet more squarely and lifted the drawn bow directly in line with his armored head, intent on following up on the promise made to put the arrow into his visor.  A near-impossible shot, but it had happened before.

"So be it..." he growled out, swallowing down the looming dread in his throat at the idea of ruining such a beautiful day with bloodshed.  He snapped the arrow off from the shield and lowered his frame atop Theron.  "For Glenwoad!" he roared and tapped his heels against his horse. Theron lunged forwards, rapidly closing the gap.

The archer bristled, fingers tightened on the bow's shaft and let fly the deadly missle.  Simon jerked his head to the side and heard the projectile whizz right past where he had been.  The man's promise had been accurate.  But there would be no time for a second shot before he would be upon him.  The bandit must have known that for he did not reach for another arrow.

Instead, abruptly, he lowered the bow even as Simon and Theron thundered closer. Simon could not be sure, but he felt like the man was...smiling?  Theron whinnied in alarm suddenly and the world spun. He was flipping end over end, sailing through the air before he crashed down hard onto the grass and dirt. All of the air left his lungs and his vision swam. Nearby, Theron roared and snorted angrily. He lifted his head slowly, painfully up, to see that the horse had been caught in another rope trap, this one tied around one leading hoof. His saddlebags had been thrown all over the place.

The bandit laughed loudly, heartily. "Oh that was so worth it!" he catcalled. "Not every day you get to see a metal-man fly!" He stalked over, bow raised and pointing it down at the prone Simon. He was large, blotting out the view of the sun above. The eyes above the mask, set deep in the shadows of the hood, glittered like the gold around their throat, ferocious and triumphant. "Now, drop the sword or I'll pin you like a...!"

Simon did not let him finish his threat. His other hand, buckler having been thrown off in the fall, grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it up into the bandit's face. The man yelped and staggered back, dropping the bow. It allowed the winded Prince to surge to his feet, armor slowing him down.  He retrieved his sword up from the undergrowth nearby and found his footing.  Double-handing the blade, one on the hilt and the other firmly gripping the pommel, as Leana had taught him, he took a solid stance to wait.

"You! Mother-fucking!" exclaimed the man, wiping furiously at the dirt in his eyes. "What kind of knight are you? Where's the whole 'noble conduct and fighting fair' shtick?! Throwing dirt? Are you kidding me?"

The indignation and surprise in the man's voice took Simon back for a second before he growled. "I owe no man fair treatment when he ambushes and burgles from others." He saw the man bent over, still wiping at his eyes and swearing. For some reason, Simon almost felt bad. "May I ask if you are all right?"

The bandit stiffened, looking up at him. The golden eyes had turned a bit more red around the edges, and he kept wiping at them with a big paw of a hand before straightening back up.  He thought he saw a strange shade of blue for a second across his features behind the mask. "What kind of question is that?" he demanded. "I try and rob you, you throw dirt in my face and then ask me if I'm all right? No! Let's...fuck...." he rubbed at his face again. "Let's just do this..." He reached beneath his cloak and pulled out his scabbarded sword. It was much bigger than Simon's, not quite as long but broader with a flat, smashing crossguard and pommel in the shape of a spike.

"Are you certain?" Simon asked, taking half a step back to adjust his stance. "I'd hate to fight a man at a disadvantage of sight."

"No, I can see just fine," the man retorted, drawing the sword and chucking the black scabbard away. "Thanks for the concern though." His voice had become lighter and more conversational, even as he shouldered the blade in both hands and pointing it straight at Simon's chest. He lunged, powerfully, advancing with perfect balance, making it as if he were going for a stab before whirling the blade up above his head and hammering it down with one hand.

Simon blocked it, one hand on the flat of his sword to distribute the parry better.  Even one-handed, the strength of that blow nearly knocked him off balance.  He had fought opponents larger and heavier than himself before, although never one not also clad in armor.  Once the energy was diverted, he slid the man's sword off to the side, regripped the hilt with both hands, and swung wide. The bandit blocked it expertly, then ducked slightly down and shoulder-rushed him. He just barely got out of the way in time, letting the bandit rush past him and slashing for his exposed back. The blade met only steel again as his opponent spun mid-step and parried.

They both skipped back a step, already panting softly. "You're good!" complimented the bandit, flourishing the big blade side to side. The sword made a whistling sound as it cut the air on either side of the man's muscular, almost over-sized body. "But you don't move too well in all that clunky armor."

Simon grimaced. It was true, he couldn't maneuver in all this plate, not as well as he was used to. "You as well," he returned graciously. "You handle that weapon with an expert's touch."

The bandit made a small mocking bow. "Why good sir, you're going to make me blush," he teased and then slashed twice, gravely voice rising into a snarl as he did so. Simon was hard-pressed to block or avoid them, stumbling back as each one lashed like a viper, not at his arms or head, but his legs. Damn, the man knew exactly where to target. Balance was everything in a battle like this. To lose one's footing was nearly a death sentence.

The bandit saw him stumble over a root and he charged again, blade leading the way. Simon deflected it, but he did not have the time or space to avoid another heavy tackle. The man's bulky form hammered into his chest, shoving him back a few steps before suddenly lifting him off the ground and pinning his back to a tree. His helmet snapped forward just in time to see that iron-banded fist smashing into his visor.

His vision went dark for a moment from the impact, stars dancing behind his eyes and he blindly lashed out with his own gauntlet. He felt the metal fist connect twice, solidly, in the bandit's midriff before latching onto the cloak around his shoulders. The bandit whirled him away from the tree, throwing him off of one hip and sending him rolling and sprawling across the floor. The cloak came with him.

"Fuck!" exclaimed the man. "Burn me, that hurt!  Watch where you're punching!"

Shaking his head blearily on the ground, Simon tried to rise to his feet. His vision swam and he realized he couldn't see. Had he gone blind? No. His helmet's visor was caved in, bent almost flat.  His face burned across his nose in a sharp line where the metal was bent in against his flesh and he could feel a small trickle of blood oozing down his cheek.  He was lucky that the rim had missed his eyes.

Hearing the crunch of boots nearby, he whirled in place, sword lifted and poised to defend himself.  Every nerve in his body was tight, anxious, and he could feel a tinge of fear that had his skin prickling and teeth gritted hard.  He was blind against an unnaturally strong opponent.  He heard a shuffle to his side and he swung wildly toward it, already regretting the motion.  He had so many openings now that he couldn't see to defend himself.

The footsteps paused.  "You all right there, metal man?" the voice rasped.  Shockingly, the bandit seemed to be keeping his distance, voice straining a bit as if winded.  "Damn but you got me good there!"

"Yes!" retorted Simon quickly, not wanting to seem weak, metal hands sliding and scrabbling at his helmet. "You caved in my visor. I just need a moment to get this...confounded...thing...off!" Again, his fingers slid off the straps and he snarled in frustration and mounting tension.  He had never felt so powerless before.  At any moment the man could come at him and he wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

Even as he scrabbled at the covering, he heard a jostling of leather and metal nearby.  He could imagine that the man was just sitting there, watching him struggle.  His face burned and his hands scratched at the helmet more.  And then, at last, came the ultimate humiliation.  "You need some help?" they asked in an amused tone.

"No!" he snapped immediately.  He thought his hand had finally caught on the clasp but it slid off again.  He let out a snarl and finally he ceased trying.  His hands tightened into fists, gauntlets creaking.  "It would seem the fight is yours," he admitted begrudgingly, hating the words even as he spat them out.

There was a deep inhale of breath from his opponent before he let it out in a sigh.  "All right."  Hanging his head, Simon grumbled as the boots crunched closer.  Then he jerked as heavy, rough hands grabbed a hold of his helmet, jerking him forward and slightly off balance.  He tugged back hard, heart hammering and frantic, before the man's voice growled out.  "Hold still!"

"What on earth are you doing?" he demanded, feeling heavy fingers working at the clasps of the helmet.  He couldn't help but continue to jerk every so often, having no clue what this strange bandit was about.  "Let go of me!"

"If you don't stand still, I can't get this helmet off of you," the man snapped.  "This fight's been too enjoyable for it to end like this.  Now, hold still, and I'll get you free of this tin helmet of yours."

"It is not made of tin!" he objected.  "This helmet was handcrafted by some of the best armor-smiths in...ow!"  He winced as the metal plate scraping across his nose and cheek dug in more.  "Hold off, the visor is crushed against my face.  Unless you're wanting to take my nose off with it, you're going to have to be more gentle."  The very idea of a man against whom he had just been locked in deadly combat performing such a delicate task in an attempt to aide him had him completely flummoxed.

"Burn me..." he heard his bizarre assailant muttering, hands moving more gently and carefully now.  There was an actual growl to their voice somehow, not an affected sound either but a deep, rasping thrum to their breath unlike any he had ever heard before.  "I really did a number on this thing didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," Simon grumbled.  Explaining this to his father would be very awkward later.  He tried to remain still as the helmet began to loosen, torturously slow.  His face twinged and burned as the metal groove of the visor finally left his skin.

With one last jerk on the final clasp, the helmet clattered open.  The bandit took several steps back and Simon jerked the device off his head.  He could all but feel his messy, bird's-nest of dark hair springing up immediately around his sweat-streaked face.  The world returned to color, almost too bright for a moment. He blinked and sucked in a lungful of air. "There!"



From beside him, he thought he heard a low whistle. "Well hello..." was the softly voiced murmur.

"What was that?" he asked, still blinking to adjust his eyes back to the brightness of the noon-day sun on the forest path.

"Nothing," came their abrupt reply.  He then felt a tap at his back. "Here's your sword if you want to keep going," the bandit said.

He blindly took the blade back, nodding gratefully as he wiped at his sweaty brow.  He dabbed at the cut on his face with his hand.  Thankfully it was quite shallow.  He breathed more evenly now that everything wasn't so tight and cramped.  "My thanks. You might be a bandit but you're a nobler sort than I've ever~..." he turned back to face his opponent. His voice dropped away. He stared, wide-eyed, flabbergasted. He felt the blood trickling down from his nose but he wasn't able to focus on the wound any longer.  He could barely even believe what he was seeing.



(Art by Jack_Rip)

The woman bandit stared hard down at him, a half-amused smile on her face.  The glint of a ring studded her bottom lip, shining in the sunlight. She had one fist planted on her hip, and the other balancing her sword blade against her shoulder. With the cloak torn away, all she wore was a sleeveless tunic, and brown leather trousers.  Her tunic strained to contain a chest so prodigious that he could see the strings of the front pulled taut. Beneath it was an expanse of cleavage that dipped so low that he almost got lost for a second, a single leather strap of a chest binding showing slightly from the deep plunge of the v of her neckline.  Her heavy, buckled boots were reinforced on the toes and heels with metal plates. The muscles of her arms rippled beneath skin that was a heavily tanned color, for most of what he could see of it.

A pair of belts was lashed, a massive one across her waist, and another up over her chest. The leather cord was secured tightly, attached to a leather-scale pauldron that added to her marauder-esque appearance. Her whole frame was large and unfeminine at first glance, rippling with powerhouse muscles, with little curves to speak off other than her chest. Her hair was messy and ruffled, a dark brown, and her eyes were literally golden in color, not just amber, the pupils slit like a cat's. Dark tattoos were inked across her bulging biceps, exotic bands that shone almost metallic in the sunlight.

But, the most interesting thing about her, not just being a her in the first place, were the scales. Actual scales, brilliant cerulean blue in color, covered her shoulders, forearms, hands, and up her throat, around which was attached a heavy gold choker, matching a similar one on her right wrist. Thicker, darker blue-colored ridges of scale could be seen at various intervals, protruding from her almost like small plates of armor. She had small, spine-like protrusions from her elbows, like tiny fins, and an actual pair of long, golden horns rose from the tangled bed of her hair.  More golden bands decorated those as well. Her ears were pointed and finned, like her elbows, and colored solid blue.  Savage scars of varying lengths decorated her body everywhere he could see, on her arms, shoulders, even one across her forehead, just barely visible underneath her raggedy bangs.  When she smiled at him, all teeth, he saw each one was sharpened to a tip, her entire mouth full of fangs.

Simon could only stare, flabbergasted, and startled at her. He kept looking her up and down as if each time he did so he could blink away the obvious concussion and reality would return. His voice was weak, stammering. "You...you're...you're a..."

She arched her scarred eyebrow up at him, amused. "What? A woman? You couldn't tell?"

"No!" he said lamely, then he suddenly realized everything that had gone on. His face, well used to stress, fatigue, worry, and surprise turned a shade of red he didn't know that it could go. "Oh my Goddess, I am so sorry." He bowed his head to her. "Please forgive me!"

He heard her snort and laugh openly, loudly at him. Her voice boomed around the quiet forest trail. "For what?" she asked, still chortling. "Punching me in the tit? What happened to 'there are no rules in combat'?" She winked at him as he looked back up into her face. His flustered expression just made her laugh again. "I've had worse when I kit down on rocks!" she guffawed. "Or are you talking about the throwing dirt in my eye thing again?"

"Both!" he exclaimed, not sure why he was so flustered and speechless. He was never like this. "I mean...all of it!"

"It's fine, mate," she grunted, grinning broadly at him and winking once, cocky eyebrow still raised. She adjusted her stance then, returning to a warrior's pose. "Now, we going to keep going at it?  Ain't nice to leave a lady waiting."

He stared at her even harder.  He had no idea what she was talking about.

Her golden eyes narrowed down at him.  "What?" she snapped, voice a bit harsher now.  "Can't fight when you know it's a woman or something?"  She rolled her shoulders and whirled her sword in one hand as if it were as light as a twig.  "That's some kind of misogynistic, bullshit attitude you got there.  You worried about hurting me or something?  I'm just as much of a warrior as you are."  She rolled her lip up on one side, baring her fang-like teeth again.  "Or did you forget the ass-kicking I just gave you?"

Simon's confusion fell off and he scowled up at her.  "I have no problem with fighting a woman," he snapped.  "I fight women all the time!"

Her scaled eyebrow lifted and she blinked down at him.

He realized how that must have sounded.  "I mean...women.  Knights.  I fight female knights all the time."

"Uh-huh..." she retorted.

Somehow that had just made it worse.  "I-it's not like I don't also fight other men!" he blurted out.  "I've dueled against dozens of other warriors, men and women.  I don't believe in that kind of unequal treatment.  Some of the best fighters I know are women."

She had since dropped the sneer from her expression but it was rapidly transforming into an amused smirk.  "That so?" she teased.

His face flushed more and he ground his teeth against one another.  "That's...what I meant to say is...I just wasn't expecting you to be a woman."

"Ah..." she hummed, nodding along with him.  Her tone dripped with mocking sarcasm.  "So you're just a bit taken aback is all that the bandit you were fighting is a woman."

"Yes!" he snapped.

"A breathtakingly hot, huge woman at that.  A woman who just thrashed you. "

"Yes," he replied again, then paused.  "Wait..."  He growled even more as she smirked even wider.  "I didn't say that.  And you did not thrash me."

"Pretty sure I did, pretty boy," she guffawed.  She rolled her iron-banded fist at the wrist before clenching the fingers tightly into a ball.  Loud cracks resounded from her knuckles as they popped, almost like twigs snapping.  "Or are you wanting another taste?"

Hefting his sword up, Simon sank into a battle stance.  He could see better now without the stupid helmet obscuring part of his vision.  When it came to protection versus mobility, he would take speed over defense any day.  "If you're wanting this fight so badly, then fine.  Let's get back to it."

She hummed, seemingly pleased by that.  "That's good to hear.  I was worried you were one of those guys with no real endurance.  That would have been a shame.  Almost as much a shame..." she sank into a stance as well, palming her sword in one hand despite its weight.  She curled her other fist back into a ready position.  "As me busting up that pretty face of yours!"  She lunged, swinging the sword in a scything arc.

Simon blocked it, hands and blade ringing from the impact, then dodged on a split second instinctual reaction, barely dodging her armored fist which whipped out toward him again.  He swerved around the attack at the last second, spinning on one armored foot, and then hopped back, attempting to get some distance between them.  She had not only weight but power on her side.  She knew that as well as he did.  She kept closing the gap, swinging again and again.  Each time he blocked, parried, or dodged her sword strikes, she would follow up with a hammering swing of her armored fist as if it were a weapon as well.

Her style was unlike any he had ever trained to fight against in his many years of sword practice and actual combat when out on campaign.  It was feral and swift, pure energy and nothing held in reserve.  Her teeth remained bared, her eyes gleaming, and she used her entire body for each attack.  Ordinarily it would have been all too easy to take advantage of how many openings she would have left behind, but she was just as good at minding her sword's positioning for defense.  Each and every time he thought he could get a deciding strike in, she would intercept it with either her sword or block with the armored plates on her fist, to speak nothing of her also phenomenal reaction time and reflexes.  Never would he have imagined someone so large could move so fast.

Simon gave as good as he got regardless, but several minutes later, his arms were shaking and his breathing ragged.  Even she too seemed a bit drained as her furious assault had not somehow breached his defenses.  They backed off from one another, settling into a slow, wary pacing in a circle as they studied each other.  He kept his footsteps careful and measured, eyes scanning her burly body for any sign of an opening.  It was not an entirely unpleasant affair, despite the circumstances surrounding their extended brawl.

"I have to admit," she growled out, breaking his concentration only slightly.  Her eyes gleamed like actual fire and her mouth parted in heavy, panting breaths.  Her teeth flashed more openly.  "This is probably one of the best fights I've had in a long time.  You know how to dance, I'll give you that, pretty boy."

He gritted his teeth.  "Stop calling me that," he growled before he relented, unable to curb his respect for her despite their situation.  No one had ever pushed him so hard before.  Things would have been different if he had his actual preferred weapons.  He was thankful, now more than ever, for his father's insistence of he and his brothers learning to wield different weaponry.  "You are also a formidable opponent.  I've never met anyone who fights like you.  Where did you train?  What blade-master?"

She grinned even more.  "I'm self-taught," she rasped out.  "An ambush is all well and good, but there's nothing more satisfying than beating some self-superior noble who fancies himself a swordsman into the dirt.  I've broken a few noses, and blades, in my time on the road.  A few hearts too."  She threw him a salacious wink.

His eyes hardened.  "You're a waste of talent then," he told her.  "You'd make for a magnificent knight if you weren't so committed to this life of banditry."

"I told you, I'm not a bandit," she snapped back at him.  She whirled her sword around herself in a beautifully coordinated double-arc.  "I just take from those who can afford it."

"I'm sure you do," he sneered.  "You seem ever the noble and virtuous type.  Robbing the rich but sparing the poor, do we?"

She rolled one lip up again, sinking into an aggressive stance once more.  Both hands gripped the hilt of her sword.  "You don't know a thing about me, rich boy," she snarled, voice heavier and raspier now.  He ceased to pace as well, settling himself back into a ready position.  "I'm almost going to regret smashing that superior smirk off your face."

She lunged, barreling towards him almost too fast to believe.  But he had gauged her attack and bent with it.  The armor creaked and groaned as he timed his counter-strike, ducking underneath her two-handed cleave that had been aimed right at his face.  The whistling blade just barely missed the top of his head.  He saw her surprise of his agile maneuver register right as he whipped the sword up and across the space between them.

He felt the sword catch and tear at something made of cloth before it raced up and across something less solid.  There was a loud gasp of pain and he spun on a heel and kicked out hard at her unsure front leg.  His armored foot connected with the side of her knee and the bandit woman went down.  Her sword clattered to the ground and one scaly hand was clamped across her face.

Simon took a couple of wary steps back, keeping his sword lifted.  The woman knelt there in the dirt, hissing out a stream of curse words in both his tongue and one he wasn't familiar with.  He eyed the spots of blood on the ground and the tip of his blade.  Deep down, he already regretted using that maneuver with a sharpened sword.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to make his words come out as casual as he could despite the tenseness of the situation.  "I...guess now we're even."  She glanced up at him from the corner of one eye, other paw still clamped over the left side of her face.  He pointed at the cut across his nose.  "A nose for an...eye."  He couldn't make himself smile.  "Are you all right?" he asked.

Her brow furrowed and she winced.  "Oh I'm just peachy," she snarled.  She lowered her scaly paw.  He flinched to see the long, ragged cut that trailed up her scale-spotted cheek, skipping over her eye socket, and across her brow.  It looked like it hurt.  She blinked open the eye eventually, making him sigh in relief to see he hadn't blinded her.  Then, she did the unthinkable.  She looked up at him and smiled.  Her teeth gleamed and she gave out a thick belly-laugh.  "That was amazing!" she crowed.  "How did you pull that off?!"

Simon stared down at the bizarre woman in absolute shock.  He was lost for words temporarily.  "I...suppose I've...practiced it...a lot," he admitted lamely.  Despite himself, he felt a sheepish smile stretch his handsome face.  "I'm just glad it seems to be a minor cut."

She grinned wider then winced a bit as blood dripped down her face more.  "Burn me, it does hurt," she admitted.  "But I can still see.  Once that heals, that scar is going to look amazing.  I honestly feel like I should thank you."  She winked her good eye up at him.  She wiped at the stream of red, smearing some dirt on her tanned face.

Sighing, he reached into a pouch at his waist and extricated a small piece of cloth.  He extended it on the tip of his sword to her, still wary given their circumstances.  "Here.  If you get dirt in that cut, it could go badly."

She blinked but took the proffered rag.  She wiped at her face, getting the worst of the blood off.  After she was done cleaning the injury, she palmed the soft linen and sniffed at it.  Her nose wrinkled.  "Smells fancy," she observed.  She made to hand it back but he shook his head.  Shrugging, she let it fall to the ground.  Then her paw-like hand was wrapping around the hilt of her blade and she was beginning to stand once more.  "All right, first round to me, now second to you," she observed with a growl.  Her eyes flashed.  "Third round takes the win!"

Simon actually felt himself smiling as she lumbered back up to her feet.  "I suppose I can't argue with that," he commented.  Then his eyes fell from her face and across the front of her tunic.  They went wide, green orbs locked onto the sight before him.  He tried to speak, he tried to say anything.  But all that came out of his mouth was a strained utterance of "Good...Goddess..."

The bandit woman arched her unscarred eyebrow up at him in confusion at his hesitation.  "What are you gawking at?" she demanded before she followed the line of his sight down towards her chest.  Her yellow orbs flew open wide.  "Oh.  Whoops."

Her tunic had been cut wide open from his attack, missing her tanned and scaly skin somehow, and the ragged section of cloth now billowed about her arms and waist like a vest rather than a shirt.  The only injury that had been dealt was the cut across her eye.  The entirety of her rippling upper body was now visible, well-endowed chest swaying and barely maintaining its modesty by a series of leather straps and coverings over the twin mounds of female flesh.  There were no scales upon them and he thought he saw a bare tint of brighter, pink color near the barely concealed centers.

Simon stared long and hard at those swaying orbs before, with a sudden realization of what he was doing, he spun on a heel and faced away from her.  "I apologize profusely!" he nearly shouted in a frantic voice.  "Please forgive this transgression, I would never have meant to do that!"

Her booming laughter echoed around the forest road.  His ears were burning so hot from what he had seen and her voice that he wouldn't have been surprised if they caught fire.  She shrieked with merriment behind him for several long minutes before she finally got control of herself.  "Oh b-burn me, that is too funny!" she guffawed.

He glanced back at her once over his shoulder to see she was trying to pull the tunic closed once again.  Her eyes caught his looking and he whipped back around, face now just as hot as his ears.  Every movement of them seemed to almost defy gravity for how they swayed...  He shook his head furiously.  A gentleman and a knight did not ogle a woman who was so bared and uncovered.

"Well, that's a loss," he heard her mutter.   "I really liked that shirt.  Oh well."  She cleared her throat as if trying to get his attention.  "So, we going to do this or not?"

"What on earth are you talking about? I can't fight you now!" he snapped over his shoulder at her.

Her levity seemed to quickly vanish.  He could swear he heard an animalistic growl resound from her. "What the hell does that mean? You can't fight me because you've seen my tits? What kind of crap is that?!  What, they aren't good enough for you or something?  Or are you such a prude that you can't look at me as a warrior anymore just because my shirt got cut open?  My people would never treat a fellow fighter with such disrespect for such a bullshit reason.  I thought you knights were supposed to be honorable."

"Your people?" he asked, confused then shook his head violently again.. "And no, I can't fight you, not because you're a woman, but because..." he stammered to a halt, unsure of why he was even hesitating. She had attacked him, tried to rob him, punched him in the face. Any man who had done that would have deserved no quarter in a duel like this. He had even dueled women, knights, before, although none like her. "Because..."  He gritted his teeth.  "Because it isn't right!  That's all."  Steeling himself, he turned back around to look at her, keeping his gaze firmly locked onto her face.

The bandit woman was glaring at him with pure venom and fire in her eyes before she sighed.  She stood back up to her full, and much more considerably noticeable height. He realized that while he was not a short man, she was a least a full head taller than he was. His head would only have been level with her still exposed chest.

She leaned her sword against her shoulder again. "Damn, I almost was able to respect you," she said angrily. "Fine, just throw down the sword and I'll go. Fucking..." she turned away, grumbling loudly.  "Best fight of my life and the guy chokes because I've got big tits..." he heard her muttering.

"That isn't..." he tried to object.

"No longer care!" she shouted back at him.  She had since stalked over to where Theron was still tied up.  The old horse was resuming trying to right himself, unhappy about this woman approaching him. He snapped at her in warning and she snarled right back before, abruptly, her horns lowered back against her skull and she made a weird, rolling motion with her shoulders.

A soft, growling purr came from her then. Theron calmed slowly, and she lifted a hand. To Simon's utter shock, she petted the horse's muzzle a few times before crouching down to inspect his pack.

"Hold there a moment!" he demanded loudly, attempting to throw off the shock of Theron so easily allowing her past him.  He advanced towards her. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Uhhh..." she snorted, turning back to look up at him, scaly hands clutching one of his saddlebags. "Stealing your shit? You won't fight me so you aren't worth keeping it. Rules of the duel were I win, I take your stuff."

"Well who decided that?" he declared loudly.

"You did, when you went all choir-boy after seeing my girls bouncing in the wind," she retorted harshly.  He felt a surge of heat come to his face as she continued to root around in his saddlebags.

"Fine!"  he snapped then, getting her attention as she was currently inspecting a wrapped parcel of travel rations he took along for emergencies in case he had to spend a night outside the castle.  He strode toward her and tapped her with the flat of his sword on the arm. "Stand back up then if you want to keep fighting!"

She arched an eyebrow up at him exhaustively. "What, your precious chivalry going to allow you to fight me now?"

He flushed again and looked away from her. "I admit, I do not want to fight you as you are.  If you're so set on settling this in continuation of our contest, however, then I have no choice but to accommodate you."

"Oh well, fuck me!" she said, putting on a mock-flattered voice. "I would be ever so grateful!"  She gestured at her chest, a motion he refused to follow with his eyes.  "So what, are you just over your issues about this now?"

"Hardly," he snapped back.  "What I'll ask is that you remove the shirt."  He held out his armored hand to her.

Her eyebrows furrowed.  "So...you can't bear to look at them with the shirt cut open, but you're going to be just fine with me topless?"

"No!" Simon retorted heatedly.  "Just take it off and give it here.  All I ask is a few minutes to attempt to fix it."

"Fix it?" she asked, actually looking surprised.  Her lips perked up at the corner.  "You?"

"Do you want to continue our duel or not?" he asked.

Sighing, she put down the package she was palming and lifted her hands to her shirt.  He looked away hurriedly, hand still outstretched, before he felt her plop the tunic into it.  "There," she told him.

He brushed past her, face still hot, and reached into another bag at Theron's side.  There, he extricated a small bundle of cloth, that, once unrolled, revealed a pair of sewing needles, a bob of pale thread, and small shears that he always carried with him.  He strode several steps away and sat down on a rock to start removing his gauntlets.  The process did not take long and he was soon putting needle to thread and resewing the damaged tunic up along the rent seams.

He glanced over the woman only once, not wanting to get distracted, to see her openly staring at him in surprise.  She watched his long fingered hands deftly working the needle as he worked to repair the damage he had done to her garment.  He put her out of his mind, trying to work as quickly and efficiently as possible.  In short order he had repaired the cut and returned toward her, holding out the shirt.  "There," he said brusquely.  "I did what I could."  He kept his eyes tamely fixed over her shoulder as she retrieved the tunic and inspected it.

He heard her whistle.  "Well, burn me, pretty boy," she growled.  "That's a good repair job."  She started slipping it back on over her horned head, bulky arms straining the sleeveless armholes, and reattaching her leather pauldron once she was done.  Only when she was suitably covered again did he look back at her.  She posed and turned several times, testing the tunic before she glanced back down at his severe eyes.  "Not bad," she commented.  "I have to ask though...where does a knight learn to sew?"

"Thank you for the compliment," he mumbled.  He paused at her question, not wanting to divulge something so personal, and then answered with, "It's standard affair for a knight of my kingdom to know how to take care of and maintain his own gear in the field."  He didn't meet her eyes and then returned the sewing supplies to their wrapping and stowing it once again in Theron's bag.  He eyed the old warhorse with a sad sigh and bent down to try and free his old friend.  The ropes were strong and tight and he was having trouble undoing them.

Then a pair of strong hands were brushing him aside.  He looked at her once again in surprise but she wasn't looking at him, instead concentrating on the horse.  She glanced down at his bound hoof. "You poor, old warrior..." she said, actual concern in her voice. "Here I'll get you out of that. A veteran like you should be put out to stud in the stables with all the pretty young mares."

Theron whinnied loudly and she grinned, undoing the rope around the horse's ankle. Simon settled back in surprise to see the ornery old veteran allowing anyone to talk to him like that or even get so close.  Even Simon sometimes got on Theron's bad side at times, although those were very rare compared to everyone else.

"Oh I know!" she said, voice dropping to one she might have used with a baby or a small puppy.  She spoke as if she could understand him. "That big, mean man makes you walk around carrying his fat, metal ass all day."

"Hey!" exclaimed Simon loudly. Theron nickered again, and for all the world it sounded like the horse was laughing. "I do not make him carry me around all day! And I don't normally wear this much armor!"

"Aww, someone's feelings are hurt!" she simpered, ignoring him and continuing to talk to Theron. Now that he was free of the last of the ropes, she was rubbing down his flanks with a big scaly hand, nuzzling her face against his throat and stroking his soft muzzle.  "Should I kiss it better?"  she asked.  Theron whinnied.  She grinned and pressed her lips to the horse's cheek.  At Simon's open-mouthed stare, she grinned, flashing her teeth.  "What, you want one too?" she teased.

He blushed furiously and backed away from her, hefting his sword once more.  "Are we going to continue our fight or not?" he asked.

The woman sighed and stood, expression huffy and reminding him of Izzy.  She plucked her sword up from the ground where she had left it. Theron nudged her with his head and she glanced back at him, patting his snout once more. "I won't mess him up too bad, promise." She said, winking at the horse. To his shock once again, Theron just nickered.   She kissed the horse's cheek once more before turning back to face him. She tapped her sword against her palm impatiently. "All right, knight-boy. You got one more chance to not seem like a total ass. Make it good."

Simon growled and then planted his sword in the earth. At her raised eyebrow, he scowled. "If you want a true fight, then you'll let me get this bloody, restrictive metal suit off," he stated firmly. He turned to try and undo the restraints of his breastplate and gorget. He heard a put-upon sigh and then another pair of hands joined his just as before. He tried slapping her away but she firmly stayed in place.

"Oh butch up, you big baby," she said. With her help, it took much less time to remove the cumbersome breastplate, neck guard, and shoulder pauldrons. They were dropped off to the side, stacked alongside the boulder whereupon lay his gauntlets. Her hands were rough, warm, and hard as they undid the straps on him, and he didn't let her see his face flushing slightly when she had to press her chest against him to reach one buckle. "Kinda skinny without all that armor on you, aren't you?" she teased as they exposed his gambeson underneath.

He glared at her. "I am not! And anyway, it's not about power or strength in a fight. Speed is much more important, as is mental control, balance, and training!"

"Yeah, and I got all that in spades," she retorted cheekily. "Only thing you got on me is a half-decent face. You could use more scars though.  That one across your nose should look pretty good once it heals.  The pretty ladies at court are supposed to adore a scar-covered knight like you. Unless cute-little stable boys are more your preference."

He bristled at her, and she just laughed. Her voice was crass, loud, and rough in his ears. "Is this how you talk all the time, or are you only this vulgar when stealing from other people and ambushing them on the side of the road?"

"Oh I'm pretty much this foul-mouthed on a general basis," she shot back. "My people don't have the same social niceties that yours do. We speak openly, and honestly, at all times."

Finally, clad in only the under armor and light chain from the waist up, leaving the metal skirting of his faulds and leg-protecting greaves on, Simon plucked his sword back up and faced the warrior woman openly. They took their stances and began to circle once more, gripping their swords and rolling their shoulders to get back into the fighting trance.

"So a question, if you'll permit me," he said as they kept circling.

"Go ahead," she growled, adjusting her grip on her sword. "Might as well now, since I plan on kicking your high-class ass all over the place."

"You keep saying 'your people'," he said, narrowing his eyes at her, trying to predict what direction she might come at him from first. "Only, I've never seen anyone like you before in my life."  He probed with an experimental thrust which she batted away easily.

"Well, you wouldn't. I'm not from here.  I needed the money for food, a place to stay, and repairs to my equipment. It's a long road I've been on, coming from the Heath."  Her sword flickered to the side, testing his defenses as he had done.  He deflected it without more than a thought.

His eyes widened a bit. "The Blasted Heath of Caixaldryte? What on earth brought you this far west?"  His curiosity almost cost him as she gave another sweeping strike, a bit faster than the last, which he dodged away from rather than try and parry, able to move much quicker than before.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm on a quest," she snapped back. "My people, the Valydr-Grangen, take personal quests and missions very seriously. I can't go home until I accomplish it.  Now are we going to fight or is our last round nothing but this foreplay crap?"

He sighed heavily and nodded. "Fine, but you'll have to understand I just have more questions now."

She winked then, actually smiling. "Fight me first, and if you survive, I'll answer a few more. Deal?"

He smiled back. "Deal. May the best warrior win."

She nodded, whirled her sword, and charged at him, snarling. He raced towards her as well, twice as fast as he had been. Their swords met in a ringing crescendo that echoed around the forest trail like the peals of a bell.

***

The sun was slowly nearing the horizon as they both collapsed onto the grass opposite one another. Sweat coated their limbs, stained his undershirt and her tunic. They had been going at it for so long that Simon could barely keep track of it all. All his training, martial prowess, and skill had been pushed to their absolute limit, evenly matched by hers. While he had speed and the discipline that came of schooling from dozens of master knights, she had power, endurance, and instinct. They had danced for what felt like hours. His sword had a few nicks in it, but neither of them had any actual wounds. He grinned across at her, and she grinned back.

"Damn," she growled out alongside heavy gusts for air. "Closest win that I've ever had."

"Win?" he demanded cheekily, panting still for breath. He reached over to his saddlebags nearby and plucked up a waterskin. "Hardly. That was my victory." He swallowed a few mouthfuls and without even thinking about it he tossed it over to her.

She caught it and blinked in surprise before shrugging and taking a few drinks as well. Wiping her chin, she winked. "Fine. A draw. But it just means we have to go again. I don't settle for anything but absolutes. Part of the family pride, after all."

"I can settle for a draw," he responded, collapsing onto his back. "But a rematch would have to come at another time. I'm probably wanted back at the castle by this point."

She rose to her feet and crossed over to him, only to lay down on the grass right beside him and huff out a long breath. She plopped the waterskin back into his hands and rested her horned head on a forearm, staring up at the pink sky. "Fine. I'm in the area for a while longer. Guess we can make a date of it."

He flushed a bit. "A date? Hardly. You aren't exactly my type, no offense." He couldn't help smiling even as he said it.

She grinned over at him, baring her sharp teeth. "Well who said you were my type? You're too pretty and skinny for my taste, even with the decent muscle you've got going."

He returned the grin, linking his hands beneath his head as well. "Well you're too big and brawny, nothing like the castle girls."

She guffawed, and he glanced over to see her flexing a huge arm. "You're just jealous. Probably just another stuck-up rich boy."

"And you're a loud-mouthed braggart thief," he retorted cheekily. "Far too crass and crude for my liking."

"Skinny neck," she snapped, eyes sparkling.

"Scaly skin," he snapped right back.

"Cheek-bones too high!"

"Scar-face!"

She leaned over onto one elbow towards him, lip lifted to show her teeth. "Bird nose!"

He matched her. "Sharp teeth!"

She leaned towards him, growling and eyes flashing, horns standing completely up. "Well, you're way too good-looking for me, dainty too!  I'd snap you like a twig!" She rasped. "Bright eyes, clean face, no bulk!  I bet I could cripple your handsome ass without breaking a sweat if we went a round in bed!"

He leaned in toward her as well, a cocky grin on his handsome face. "Well, you're far too bulky and broad-shouldered for me!   Even if you can pull off the whole 'rough and tough but beautiful' look. And as far as breaking me, I'd love to see try!

They gazed into one another's eyes, barely a few inches between their faces. Their breath came out hot and heavy for several seconds, their eyes openly tracing one another's features. Her lips were parted, sharp teeth showing, and her golden eyes were slightly hooded. Some of her messy, spiked up brown hair had fallen over her face. He had the terrible urge to comb it back behind one of her finned ears. Her claw-tipped scaly hand kneaded the ground between them, almost inching closer. He found himself leaning in, cautiously, hopefully, and saw that she was doing the same. Their smiles were hungry, curious, and eager.

A snort from Theron broke the trance, like a mirror shattering. They sat up and away from one another. Simon's face was red again and he combed a hand back through his short hair, taking several deep breaths to calm himself. What the hell was he thinking?

It took several long seconds to compose themselves, and by then the sun was dipping lower towards the horizon. He sighed and made to stand up. "I suppose I need to get going," he uttered regretfully. "Not that this hasn't been a delightful outing, but I need to get back before search parties are sent out."

She growled softly and stood back up as well. "And I need to find a tavern to rent a room before they all fill up."

He looked at her, considering something, before he reached down to his saddlebags, dug through them, and pulled out a large purse. He proffered it to her. "Here. You won this fair and square. Consider your dinner on me."

Her eyes widened and he heard an abrupt rumble from her muscular abdomen. She clutched a scaly hand to it, licking her lips once, and then without further preamble took the coin purse. She weighed it, glancing back at him curiously. "Not going to miss this?"

"Hardly," he grinned confidently.  "Besides, you only take from those who can afford it right?"  He followed up his cocky reiteration of her own words by actually winking at her.  He bent down to begin putting away the pieces of his armor, rather than trying to attach them back on. He was going to be scolded by his father anyway, so what were another few minutes of the old man's haranguing?  He noticed her still eyeing the coin purse. "Not going to count it?"

"What, and offend you?" she asked cheekily. "I trust that you didn't just hand me a sack of rocks." She slung it over one shoulder, sheathed her sword one-handed, and walked back over to pick up her cloak. She tied it back on and then watched as he climbed up onto Theron. "See you around, pretty boy." She said.

"And you as well," he returned, making an elegant saddle-bow from atop the horse. He clicked his heels against Theron's flanks, but not before she had given the horse a farewell pat. Together, he and the old destrier trotted back down the path, going around the fallen tree, and towards home. He looked back only once, waving. She waved back.

***

Seres watched as the curious young knight disappeared down the trail before she gathered up her supplies and various bags before trudging off the opposite way. She knew a local tavern in the area that wouldn't ask questions where she got the coin, and in no time she had arrived, paid the doorman, and walked inside. Immediately, roughs and other no-good sorts like her gave her shifty, weighing eyes. She growled softly, showing the hilt of her sword and sharp teeth, and she was left alone. She reached the barman, paid for a room out of her own, smaller purse, as well as for food to be delivered, and then headed upstairs.

The Dragonkin warrior was soon in her own, admittedly cramped room, seated on a solid, old bed that creaked beneath her. She considered the weighty sack the knight had given her and wished that she had had the hindsight to ask his name. Not that she was likely to ever see him again, but his face was burned into her memory. A pleasant one at least. He had a nice smile. Good fighter too.

She opened the sack's silken ties and peeked inside. Her golden eyes widened to saucers and she felt drool leaking down her chin from her open mouth. The bag was stuffed full of gold, several hundred crowns at least! She closed it firmly and tucked it back inside her bag, heart racing. Who the hell had that knight been?

She threw herself down onto the bed, kicked off her heavy boots, and stared up at the ceiling, sore muscles aching wonderfully as she thought about their fight. She closed her eyes, clawed hands resting beneath her head.  She touched the fresh cut on her face out of habit, as it had already stopped hurting.  'What a day...' she thought as she tried to drift off to sleep.  Normally it would have been easy, but the excitement of the day still had her buzzing.

She repeated an old nursery rhyme her mother had taught her, thinking of wistful dreams. "Wander whither, our fates do go? Where the winds gust, I cannot know. Over the leaves, and grass, and snow. To that place, I dream to go." She rolled over onto her side, facing the wall. 'I hope I see you again...pretty boy...'.