He finally pulled the flask away from his lips, choking but trying not to cough. Awful shit, it really was. He’d convinced one of the prettier camp followers to sell it to him, and as vile as it tasted, it said something about the alcohol tolerance of whores. A new glimmer of respect formed for them, right where the nerve endings of his throat used to be.<br/><br/>Rendir wiped his mouth with the back of a gloved hand, sliding the flask back into the little pouch on his belt. Derrald had been<span style="font-style: italic">unbearable</span>in the meeting. He knew knew<span style="font-style: italic">knew</span>it was a mistake to allow the old “veteran” to come with him, and if he hadn’t asked right in front of his lord father Rendir would have slammed arrows through Derrald’s shiny feet to keep him pinned away from the counsel tents. Shiny bastard. At least the meeting itself had been successful, from a professional standpoint; he and a handful of the other archers were more than capable of crafting their own arrows, but the vast majority of House Brigham’s (and others, he suspected) forces were not quite so adept. Perhaps he had placed too low a bet. Perhaps he should have asked for fletchers, blacksmiths, horses and some whiskey that didn’t taste like the inside of Derrald’s –<br/><br/>It was faint, so faint and fleeting that he almost missed it, but his ears caught the snatch of song in the way a man hones in on familiarity after too long away from home. It was a unique melody, a strangely eerie tone that he’d first heard the stablehands hum while they cleaned stalls or brushed the mounts, little known and certainly far from the bawdy or dramatic, repetitive tunes one usually heard in the city. Most folk from Lebidan found it too disquieting, but there was one person he knew that always loved it, always hummed it absently when she thought no one could hear her, who would sing it to herself when she couldn’t sleep.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“A hero, little sister?”</span><br/><br/>He saw her jump like he’d hit her with a cattle brand and whirl around, ugly braids landing like ropes against her shoulders. Her expression went from surprise to stonewall defensive almost immediately, body posture adopting a rigidity that looked almost unnatural on her storkish frame. She was the real source of his frustration at the moment, despite his mental attacks on the old armored bluster bag. “Much more than his sister” the commander had said, his tone broking no response to the contrary. There was only one thing that could really mean, and Rendir wasn’t sure if even Seniré knew it yet.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“What are you talking about?”</span></span>she finally asked, warily eyeing him with her arms folded.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“The Prince called you that, not fifteen minutes ago. Essentially said you aren’t a Brigham anymore. Which would explain why you ignored me when I told you to <span style="font-style: italic">go home</span>.”</span>He took a step toward her, focusing in on her strange pink eye rather than the unfamiliar silver one. Whatever had happened on that battlefield, her experience had been even less ordinary than most… and that was quite a claim. He had been rebuffed so succinctly in that meeting, over a request that he shouldn’t have even needed to begin to make; it was no wonder his father didn’t think him fit to fill Emmet’s boots. Well,<span style="font-style: italic">boot.</span>He knew his stare was a bit intense for speaking with a girl – she was hardly a “lady” at this point, she’d barely been one before all of this – but he didn’t want to let her walk off without him at least giving her an earful.<br/><br/>A soldier that had been moving some crates between tents set them down in the middle of the path, turning to face the conversation; it was the stationary nature that caught his attention initially, but he noticed quickly that the soldier was female. And taller than he was. And broader. His eyes narrowed, meeting her gaze over his sister’s shoulder and sensing the challenge in her stare. The woman took a few steps toward them as he continued,<span style="font-weight: bold">“You can’t be… all this. I know you aren’t happy back home, but Father has been doing all he can to find you a husband. They said a change of scenery would do you some good, but this isn’t what they meant.”</span><br/><br/>The woman was now hovering almost directly over his sister’s shoulder, though she seemed oblivious. Another female soldier (this one also broader across the shoulders than he was, filled with thick, ropey muscles) came into view from the corner of his eye, and he struggled to maintain a focused contact with Seniré. This was getting a little uncomfortable.<span style="font-weight: bold">“I won’t be able to keep this from him.”</span><br/><br/>The muscular woman came close, only a pace or so behind his sister’s other shoulder. Her arms were crossed, and she wasn’t facing them but her eyes were locked on his face with an icy sheen.<span style="font-weight: bold">“So… so you need to make a choice, Seniré.” </span><br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Between what? Going home or being exiled? I <span style="font-style: italic">left</span> home.”</span></span><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“It’s not the same,”</span>he said abruptly, running over her last word and finding it difficult to avoid the two new sets of eyes (set in strong female faces, of course) that had fixed him with threatening glares. One of them appeared from behind a tent, fairly close, and the other appeared so suddenly that Rendir wasn’t sure she hadn’t just come down from the sky.<span style="font-weight: bold">“You wouldn’t be able to call yourself Brigham.”</span><br/><br/>He saw her shoulders rise with a deep breath, bizarre eyes closing. Another female soldier’s (another?!) burning gaze hit him, this one only visible whenever someone entered or exited a specific tent behind the siblings. He found himself hoping no one else would. He was now distinctly uncomfortable. How many women had Barth brought, exactly? And why were they suddenly<span style="font-style: italic">everywhere</span>?<span style="font-weight: bold">“Why… why are you doing this? Why are you here, little sister?”</span><br/><br/>Her eyes opened slowly, but with a new light of confidence.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“For my home, and my family,”</span></span>she said simply.<br/><br/>Rendir’s heart cracked, and a wave of emotion rushed to his face.<span style="font-weight: bold">“If you stay, you won’t have either.”</span>He spun on his heel and strode away, still feeling heat from the multitude of dominating female stares coming from behind the delicate shoulders of his sister.<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>The water didn’t do much to help, but the rush of cool air after was extremely refreshing. Sen stood there for a second, her eyes closed, sounds of flat teeth yanking grass and shifting hooves the only indication that the world hadn’t frozen. She tried to mute her own breathing, her own heartbeat, to preserve the stillness. If everything around her could be completely stationary, maybe it would at least slow the whirlwind in her mind… Verana’s teasing, playfully confident voice, fading into the roar of a Tutar and the somehow even the rancid smell of its breath, transitioning yet again into the impassioned command of Prince Barth, shifting all too easily into the anguished death-screams of a man burned alive. There had been a sort of stillness in all of those moments as well, though it seemed so different from this one. Sen could almost see the long, silky wisps of ribbon-like rain that had come down before, glowing a silver-blue against the backdrop of splattering blood and savage cries.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">If you stay, you won’t have either.</span><br/><br/>The big gelding behind her nudged her from her musing, his rubbery lips smacking against the ends of her braids and back. She turned from his water trough, wiping the remnants of his drinking water from her face and nonchalantly picking a half-chewed bit of grass from her cheek as she stepped to the side. The trough was fairly long and she didn’t know why he hadn’t just sipped from either side of her, until the fleabitten grey’s face followed her, nostrils still flaring insistently at her clothing.<br/><br/>With a realization that brought a soft smile to her face, despite the tempest of memories that writhed behind it, she withdrew the thick chunk of bread from her pocket and let the old warhorse take it. He stood there, chewing, longish ears tilted lazily to either side as Sen rubbed along the crest of his neck. He really was too good for Derrald; she’d thought so since they’d met.<br/><br/>“Hey, you there.”<br/><br/>She wondered if the pretentious old man had even noticed that his horse was still miraculously well-kept, even though he’d yet to find a new squire.<br/><br/>“Hey, over here!”<br/><br/>Actually, she wondered if he even remembered he<span style="font-style: italic">had</span>a horse; the man seemed to only see most things until they were no longer in front of his blustery, self-righteous, over-polished –<br/><br/>“Hello! You by the water! I said<span style="font-style: italic">hey</span>.”<br/><br/>Sen glanced behind her. Someone was trying very hard to get someone else’s attention, pretty rude of them to ignore the person calling them for so –<br/><br/>“OY, BLONDIE.”<br/><br/>A face was directly in front of her own when she snapped back, sending her backwards and very nearly soaking her butt in the horse trough (she managed to tangle her fingers in the old grey’s short mane to avoid falling, though it earned her a vaguely reproachful sigh from the horse), and she stared up into the old horsemaster’s face.<br/><br/>“Pay some attention to the world around you, lass. Rune’s knickers, how did you survive this long?”<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Why does everyone keep asking that?</span><br/><br/>“Anyway, haul some water to the stable ‘round the front. An’ no sass about it, either. Most lads I brought out to help got convenient promotions after the fightin’, so we’re workin’ with a skeleton crew and th’ fact that you’re out here means you might give a damn. Far side stable, ain’t far. Jus’ fill the buckets in the first few stalls.”<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Um…”</span></span>He was gone before she could even finish the thought.<br/><br/>The world returned to its template of stillness and serenity with remarkable speed in his wake, but Sen picked up two large buckets and the carrying pole near the trough. She leaned into the ugly horse’s neck, whispered a quick<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“You’re twenty times the knight Derrald could ever be,”</span></span>and skirted around the rest of his tether.<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>The buckets seemed heavier every time she hauled them after a fresh refill, so by the seventh time, her bruised arms were starting to get more a little than sore and a muscle in her left shoulder had developed a fairly constant spasm. Her expression had gone from slightly confused but ready to help, to a very flat, cynical stare, warding off the few squires that had actually dared to make eye contact.<br/><br/>Just before she rounded the corner with the last haul, a voice halted her. The Commander? His voice was quiet but unmistakable, though she couldn’t make out any actual words. Just as well. The last time she managed to eavesdrop on Barth, Sen had nearly blacked out. She tried to take a very subtle, inconspicuous step backward to give him and whomever he was speaking with some privacy, wincing at the small crunch of dirt and hay beneath her boot. Why did quiet sounds get so loud at the worst times? Fortunately, the only response to her hastily-rescinded intrusion was the sound of departing boots and quiet. Good. Now she could just finish giving the fancier horses some water and get back to –<br/><br/>She rounded the corner and came face-to-face with someone who looked like he was born of the land, but then that same land had chewed him up and spit him out. Beneath his dark complexion and thick black tattoos, the flesh seemed tight and stretched, but his eyes seemed lit with a certain alertness that only accentuated his foreign nature. He must be the one they found on the outskirts of camp; Sen had heard a few casual rumors from her Sisters or other snatches of half-heard conversations, about the mostly-dead man with long hair and his exhausted but feisty mare.<br/><br/>Sen wasn’t completely new to Plainspeople; there were always at least three or four in the stables back at Helburg, and she knew her father had paid rather well to have even those few gifted horsemen in his employ. She had always thought them to be friendly, even if the other stablehands and horsemasters found them standoffish and quiet. Probably because they said the same things about her. Sen didn’t remember quite as many tattoos and she believed only the oldest one had long hair, but some shared features were unmistakable. A few of them had taught her a few words and phrases in their language- she was hardly fluent, but they had always been willing to teach her and it was a fun way to pass the time.<br/><br/>After only a few seconds of awkward staring, Sen slung the yoke from her shoulders and let the full buckets of water hit the stable floor, wondering if she should say something. She wasn’t sure if he spoke any northern dialect, although if the Prince had just been speaking to him he must understand at least some of it. She unhooked one bucket from the pole and rested her hand on the stall door of the horse next to his mare. She should say something nice, at least. It must be difficult to be thrown in a place so different, so completely alien to what he knew.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Ah…”</span></span>Damn, what were the words?<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Um, <span style="font-style: italic">yr w-wyf yn ffycin iawn yn falch, ah, eich bod yn teimlo’n</span>,”</span></span>she paused, tilting her head and offering a small, friendly albeit uncertain smile,<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“<span style="font-style: italic">uh… llai fel pentwr o… hallt wain rhech?</span>”</span>*</span><br/><br/>Sen’s smile broadened slightly. It had really been a long time since she’d learned the few words and phrases; she was glad to have remembered them so accurately. Another person simply saying that they were glad he was feeling better might help him feel a little more welcome around here. She was certain that her countrymen weren’t doing anything of the sort, and honestly, she was pretty sure the ones that hadn’t heard about the Plainsman’s impromptu arrival assumed he was here to pamper their expensive war horses.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">&lt;~~~</div><br/><br/>Rajah stood alone and solemn after Barth took his leave, listening to Emira’s quiet whickering as he stroked her muzzle. They’d done it. Rajah had done precisely what he’d been sent out to do, but why did that feel like such a hollow victory? It had been weeks, almost a month since he’d been expected to return with an army. For all he knew, his people were dead, slaughtered upon their escape. The Rapaii knew no mercy. If they thought they were in danger, they would cut the fruit off the tree and be done with it. Barth had reassured him that they would be taking out the Rapaii and freeing the Plainspeople, but how long was too long before Rajah had no one to return to? He was definitely relieved for the support, but he suddenly felt very, very ill.<br/><br/>Pressing his forehead to Emira’s, he quietly prayed to anyone that was listening. For victory, for safety, for strength. He only faintly heard the crunch of hay behind him. He would have paid it no mind if Emira hadn’t taken a cautious step back, prompting Rajah to look at her curiously before turning his head around. “Ah…” the woman started, offering him a meek yet polite smile. Rajah deeply exhaled a breath he hadn’t been aware that he’d been holding, nodding his head in the same polite manner. Until she continued.<br/><br/><span style="color: #8080FF">“<span style="font-style: italic">Beth’e?</span>”</span>he asked, narrowing his eyes and turning bodily toward her. His braid, which he’d wrapped around his shoulders in the same fashion that Radu had, fell loose and cascaded down his back in his sudden movement. She looked slightly confused, and that only served to irk him further.<span style="color: #8080FF">“<span style="font-style: italic">Beth oedd chi'n dweud? Gwelaf nad y merched y Gogledd oes ganddynt foesau.</span>”*</span><br/><br/>He stopped and looked at her.<span style="font-style: italic">Actually</span>looked at her, his brief rage no longer blinding him. The woman’s smile never faltered, and her eyes sparkled just enough to give an innocent gleam. Too innocent, in fact, to have said literally anything that just came out of her mouth. In Rajah’s eyes, there were a few facts that he’d just overlooked. One, that she was smiling and still looking at him very kindly - something he’d not received a lot of since he’d arrived. Two, she’d spoken to him in his own tongue, which was honestly a fucking miracle since the few people other than Barth that he’d spoken with regarded him with distaste. And the third reason was just a reiteration of the fact that she still looked<span style="font-style: italic">way</span>too polite to talk to him like she had.<br/><br/>Rajah smiled then, though he had to bite his tongue from laughing.<span style="color: #8080FF">“Apologies,”</span>he offered, raising a hand up in defense just in case she decided to slap him. He still felt lethargic and he was definitely thinner than he’d ever been before, so if she wanted to hit him he’d probably just fall over and lay down for a while.<span style="color: #8080FF">“Ah… you are right, I am no longer feeling like a..”</span>He replayed her words over again in his mind, and that time he<span style="font-style: italic">did</span>laugh.<span style="color: #8080FF">“.. an-um... a pile of salty vaginal farts.”</span><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">~~~&gt;</div><br/><br/>Sen had stopped just shy of taking a full step backward when the thin young man wheeled on her, her long spine bending away from him as though a strong wind had shot through the stable. He sounded… upset? And he spoke just a little too quickly for her to keep up; apparently, her comprehension wasn’t as up to snuff as she’d initially believed. The words for “see”, “women” and “north” she recognized, and there was a negative context attached to one of the last words, but in the face of his aggressive tone she felt too pressured and confused to piece together what it all meant. Still, her smile faltered only a little, even if it was because her mental synapses had been forced down an emergency reroute. What was the word for “sorry”? For all the words that she, of all people, should know in every language, her memory came up with nothing but a tumbleweed.<br/><br/>Fortunately, it was only a few seconds of glaring before the fury in his eyes melted away, to be quickly replaced by a very genuine smile. So genuine, in fact, that Sen suspected he was close to a full grin. Her own returned with a bit more confidence, and softened when he apologized for the totally-uncalled-for outrage. Until he continued.<br/><br/>She blanched, mismatched eyes snapping open wide and lips parting slightly in surprise. She was hardly a stranger to coarse language (it was an army camp, not a finishing school, and she theorized that the Sisters were some of the worst offenders) but his word choice for that was just… well, it was just weird. The tops of her cheekbones flushed a light red.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“That’s… that’s great.”</span></span><br/><br/>Just her luck. The one time she tried to reach out to someone other than a horse, and it just happened to be the one man with the strangest metaphors she’d ever heard. She watched him curiously for a few more moments as she opened the stall door, gently clicking and pushing to back the large gelding up before refreshing his water. He pinned his ears, aggressive as any well-bred warhorse should be, but she scratched around his throat and he dropped his head into her hand. It really made no sense, she decided, still wracking her brain for more words. He didn’t seem like an odd person, just newer than most to the northern cultures and language… perhaps he had simply misunderstood or misused a few words?<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Um… I’m Sen,”</span></span>she started again, a little awkwardly, as she exited and re-latched the stall door. A short paused followed, and she tried again with a very hesitant,<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“… <span style="font-style: italic">A oes gennych enw, neu ydw i’n galw titw siwgr</span>?”</span>**</span>There! Something as simple as asking for his name… that should be easy enough, right?<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">&lt;~~~</div><br/><br/><span style="color: #8080FF">“You are not needing to call me ‘sugar tits,’”</span>Rajah laughed, trying to hide his grin with his hand. This girl’s - Sen’s - grasp on Plainspeak was… remarkable, to use only one word. She spoke it like it was a forgotten second language, just on the tip of her tongue,  and yet... that<span style="font-style: italic">word choice.</span><span style="color: #8080FF">“My name is Rajah. Miss Sen, where is it that you are learning Plainspeak?”</span><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">~~~&gt;</div><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Sugar tits?</span>A hot wave rushed to her cheeks and she coughed a little awkwardly, mostly to try and disguise the fact that she’d nearly choked on her own spit. That was very…<span style="font-style: italic">forward</span>of him, to put it mildly. She cleared her throat again, forcing herself to focus on the fact that this was clearly another… linguistic misunderstanding or cultural difference and that she should be more sensitive. Or maybe less sensitive. Honestly, considering how he very politely continued their exchange, she really wasn’t sure how to be or feel. He certainly wasn’t acting like any of the drunken assholes that she’d heard use that phrase, but she couldn’t help but feel a bit as though he were laughing at her, even though she had no idea why he would be.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Some friendly stablehands, in my – um, just outside of Mileium.”</span></span>As easy as she found it to talk to him (despite his odd nature and dubious-at-best grasp on her primary language), she didn’t want to bring her family (if she still had any) into the conversation. Entirely for her own comfort.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Is it not… not, uh… <span style="font-style: italic">putainfeistr</span>?”</span>***</span>she finished somewhat hesitantly, lifting the second bucket of water toward the mare’s stall in a second, wordless question.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">&lt;~~~</div><br/><br/>Had he not been as amused as he was, Rajah would have balked at the idea of stablemen using language such as that. Horses might have been only animals to the Northerners, ridden hard, traded in for fresh mounts and then forgotten about, but the Plainsmen revered their horses. Riding was their way of life in its entirety, and those who tended to them were some of the most respectable men in the Plains. The idea of someone that uses such detestable language tending to horses was bothersome.<br/><br/>And yet Rajah grinned anyway, not minding when Miss Sen did it at all.<span style="color: #8080FF">“Ah… perhaps? But I am thinking that the word you are meaning to use is <span style="font-style: italic">cywir.</span>”</span>At least, he sincerely hoped that she meant to ask if it was correct. She was only the second person who actually talk to him, so he had to hang on to the belief that she was just very,<span style="font-style: italic">very</span>misinformed and that she wasn’t actually as crass as she was sounding.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">~~~&gt;</div><br/><br/>Sen leaned over the mare’s stall door, keeping a respectful distance and a careful eye on the small brown horse as she deftly switched out the water buckets.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“<span style="font-style: italic">Cy-wir</span>,”</span></span>she said softly to herself, carefully imitating his exact inflections,<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Rajah.”</span></span>Her mind slowly turned over the dialogue, certain tones and questions fitting into place like slow, blind birds finding their way in a flock formation; if he felt confident enough to correct her Plainspeak, he was clearly not as confused with the Northern dialects as she’d thought… but that would mean that his strange responses and odd word choices were merely responses to the things that she - Her cheeks colored brightly again, spreading as far as her ears.<span style="font-style: italic">Oh by the Gods above and the Gods twenty yards to the left, what have I been saying?</span><br/><br/>More to give herself a minute to process than anything else, Sen leaned her carry pole against the corner and rubbed the back of her head, loosening a few more braids.<br/><br/>A sudden energy lit her face, visible only in her bright, unmatched eyes.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Are you hungry?”</span></span>Wait, no, what if that was too forward? He was still smiling that friendly, laughing smile, but what if… what if he really<span style="font-style: italic">was</span>laughing at her? He was pretty polite about it if he was, but still. Her sudden balk broadcast through her face and she lurched forward in a very old, familiar posture.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“I-I mean, I was going to grab something to eat and I thought that since you got here in kind of a… state, and still look – well, better, but still…”</span></span>Her tongue stilled uselessly in her mouth, the little insecure voice in the back of her head berating her momentary confidence spike.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">&lt;~~~</div><br/><br/>Rajah watched the realization and embarrassment pass over Sen’s features, and he would have felt bad about it if not for the mention of food.<span style="color: #8080FF">“Yes,”</span>he blurted out suddenly, decidedly oblivious to the way Sen had fumbled for her words. He let a few seconds of silence go by before realizing that might have been slightly rude of him.<span style="color: #8080FF">“I mean, I am wanting to join you if it is alright.”</span>He hadn’t eaten today. He’d tried, but going days without eating and drinking had taken a pretty heavy toll. It probably still wasn’t a good idea to try anything solid, but that hadn’t stopped him so far and it wasn’t going to stop him now.<br/><br/>Sen was right, stammering or not. He looked awful – thin and gaunt and dead – but she and Barth had been the only two so far to offer help. A few men had given him sympathetic glances, but nothing more, and that was still better than he’d expected before arriving here. Notherners weren’t horrible, he decided as he took a few steps away from Emira’s stall, realized he didn’t know where he was going, paused and waited patiently for Sen to lead the way.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">~~~&gt;</div><br/><br/>The Sister’s back straightened dramatically and a broad grin split her features, providing her eyes with a lively sparkle and erasing the lines of tension and unease that had begun to etch around her forehead. She started to follow him, more out of habit than anything else, and paused when he did. A beat passed.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Oh, right,”</span></span>she finally said, her excited tone tempered with casual embarrassment, and she stepped around him to head toward the mess tent.<br/><br/><br/><br/><span style="font-size: 75%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="color: #80BFBF">*“Um, I am very fucking glad, ah, you feel,” </span> ... <span style="color: #80BFBF">“uh… less like a pile of… salty vaginal farts?”</span><br/><span style="color: #8080FF">*“What?”</span> ... <span style="color: #8080FF">“What did you say? I see that the women of the North have no manners.”</span><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF">**“Do you have a name, or do I call you sugar tits?”</span><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF">***Pimpin'</span></span>