#noblemaidenfair

“Little baby, hear my voice.

The first thing she noticed was the kilt.

Smoke bleared her eyes, and the black that strung her throat forced a cough from dry lips. The burly man at the back of the smithy grumbled an apology, twirling the thick moulding hammer he had been using in sausage-sized fingers. The woman didn't respond; she stared across the courtyard, pale gaze focused on the blue and green.

She didn't know those colors, and it bothered her deeply.

Standing suddenly, the Northern woman untied the burlap straps of her skirting armor, placing it aside on the gnarled bench beneath her and reaching for her scabbard. The bulky man in her company watched her as he pounded away at the sword beneath his hammer, sparks flying from the contact of iron on metal. He didn't bother asking her what she was doing; he figured she wouldn't even reply. Tying her scabbard about her hips, the blonde retained a sharp curse as she stepped into the disgustingly-wet, plush mud outside of the smithy.

It was a rather dismal day - clouds hung low with fat, silver bellies, and the chill of autumn husked the cool summer air. Smoke billowed from every chimney, and the stench of sheep, wet dog, and urine clouded the nose. It had taken her weeks to familiarize herself to the scent - even now, she much preferred the rot of flesh to days' worth of sheep piss.

Swallowing thickly, she stopped a meter short of the brown-haired Scottish lass, her fingers flexing in the chilly air.