Seniré stood there for a few seconds after Ausan had left, her brain obviously trying its best to catch up with her situation. A myriad of very faint expressions flittered across her now-visible face as she experienced emotions that had been shoved aside in the rush of adrenaline, illustrating clearer than words her internal conflict.<br/><br/>A “Sister”… she was to be one of them, then. If she could handle it, of course. It was still highly likely that they would rescind the decision after a few days, perhaps sooner, depending on whether it was based off a meeting with any of the Brigham men or her own fantastic inability, but she was lighter than air just to be given the chance at all. A jittery smattering of laughter rolled through her gut but she held it back, only allowing herself a small smile that was quickly smothered behind one hand. She could feel the faint heat of her cheeks and knew that they must be flushed, though hopefully it was believable that the redness came from her recent physical exertion or intimidation. In the back of her mind, the second daughter was almost confused by her visceral response to the matter; she was behaving like a normal woman would after the handsomest lord had just proposed marriage, rather than a scarred woman proposing an opportunity to get covered in the blood of monsters.<br/><br/>A sense of eager anticipation –not dread or foreboding- seemed to spread through her deepest layer of skin like a sheet of warm peppermint, bringing a heat that made her want to scream to the Sun like a savage as well as the soothing reassurance that she had done something<span style="font-style: italic">right</span>. It was an odd mixture, to be sure, but she didn’t think anything had ever felt so beautiful as it coursed through her veins. The budding passion, denied by “decency” and “limitations” before now, swelled in her chest and demanded dominance over her wallflower nature and fade-into-the-background mentality that her lifestyle had shaped. For the first time in a very long time, there was confidence in place of shyness, and a surety in her own desire. Seniré knew she could never look beautiful in the latest court fashions or be able to dance the latest step in a ballroom, but may the Light cease to shine on her if she couldn’t learn to protect her home. That…<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>she could do. She<span style="font-style: italic">would</span>do it.<br/><br/>Somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind, a gawky little girl plucked the etched wings from a shield and placed them on her back. She would not miss this chance to fly.<br/><br/>Her eyes closed and she inhaled deeply through her nose, as though trying to reset herself. Odd how such a transpiring of events could make even the thick air of an army camp smell different. At the end of her exhale, her gold-streaked eyes snapped open and she turned to Verana.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF">“Where do I start?”</span><br/><br/><br/>--------------------------<br/>8 Days<br/>--------------------------<br/><br/><br/>The sharp jab from the butt of the polearm sent a pulse of deep ache through her abdomen, made more noticeable from bruises that had yet to heal and muscles that had yet to recover. Seniré had learned quickly, however, and besides a setting of her jaw that denoted the grinding of teeth, she held back visible reactions. Her eyes never dropped from her opponent’s body, the dull training weapon in the offending hands kept in her periphery. It was a mistake that she herself had taken advantage of in a recent situation; never assume that a stick means arms and legs are no longer functional. The thought had to take the foreground in this particular instance, especially: Verana was a roguish, opportunistic fighter close-up and seemed to pride herself on taking advantage of her trainee’s distractions, most of which she caused.<br/><br/>Not that she needed to cause many today. Sen had been placed on what she guessed to be a young tree trunk, balanced horizontally on two rather tall "stumps" (if they could so be called; they were obviously almost half of the original tree) the tops of which had been hollowed into cups for the purpose. This placed her on a crude balance beam, of sorts, approximately six feet above the ground. She had been told that it was to “hone her sense of awareness”, but all she found herself aware of was the distance between her aching body and the unforgiving ground of the army camp outskirts. This wasn’t the first time Verana had prodded her onto the unstable beam, but it was the first time she had bound the blonde woman’s hands behind the small of her back.<br/><br/>A tendril of frustration slipped into Seniré’s mind, forged on the anvil of exhaustion (army training was no picnic, particularly for a woman raised in a castle) but it was quickly smothered in a tidal wave of determination. The Maiden had been willing to offer her extra help, albeit when no one was looking, and the would-be warrior intended to take advantage of it. She had no time for such thoughts as “tired” or “thirsty” or “bruised and potentially fractured ribs”. Sen felt as though she already owed the red-haired fighter quite a debt, not only for bringing her into the fold but for dealing with Derrald’s bluster and self-righteous tirade upon learning that his groom had been… what was the word… ? Oh, right:<span style="font-style: italic">conscripted</span>by the Lindenian lieutenants. The pale Maiden deserved a hero’s medal for that alone, so sparing some free time to help the clumsy girl was quite a display of charity.<br/><br/>“Come on,” she chirped, the lengthy polearm spinning in effortless circles around her hand, “Land a hit.” The older woman stood casually on the beam across from Seniré, her posture belying the ironclad balance and control of her body. So far, the blonde woman had been able to do nothing but try to avoid the blows, something limited by the terrain and awkward weight distribution that came of her hands being tied. She wracked her brain for a solution, but other than using her feet nothing came to her; and if she swung a leg in a kick, she had no doubt that the hard ground would catch her with all the tender softness of… well, the ground.<br/><br/>She hadn’t felt quite this stuck in some time. Most of the lessons had come surprisingly quickly to the Brigham’s ugly-duckling daughter. It may have taken her several years to learn how to breathe in a corset, but she had grasped many of the basics for combat maneuvering in a matter of days; she was by no means battle-ready, but each day she seemed to become just a little less likely to die when the time for battle came. Some of the women had commented on her “instincts” with interest, but Sen found that those self-same “instincts” tended to come and go on a whim. She constanty watched the soldiers, both men and women, with a hawk-like intensity and mimicked them to the best of her ability, but she could not mimic her own intuition. The only time she seemed able to perform anywhere near a quarter their level (defense-wise, at least) was when she was totally distracted or extremely frustrated, but would these tools be able to serve her against the Tutar the same as they had against a surprised deserter? The uncertainty brought out a familiar hesitance that she did her best to smother. She didn’t want to be that girl anymore. “Lady Seniré Brigham” was a sad, awkward sop of a girl: “Sen” was a Linden recruit, a Sister-warrior (potentially), and certainly did<span style="font-style: italic">not</span>have time for things like hesitation. The transition had been remarkably easy, all things considered, but the shadows of a pummeled and broken self-image still flitted in her periphery on occasion.<br/><br/>Not that her physical image was very similar to what it had been. She still wore the old, long leather jerkin, but the baggy sleeves of the grey tunic beneath it had been sheared away at the shoulder, leaving her long arms void of fabric. The oversized man’s breeches had been traded in for a pair in a more appropriate size, and the mucking boots had been replaced with smaller but sturdier boots that encased her lower legs from knee to toe. They were heavier, since the leather had been stiffed into armor around the areas over the toe and tendons, but to Sen they fit far better than any lady’s shoe ever had. There had even been a modest assembly of worn leather armor tossed her way; her kinsmen would have turned their noses up at the shoddy accoutrements, still warm with a posthumous soldier’s scent, but Sen had felt oddly invigorated to know that her “new” armor had once protected a proven warrior. Two hardened leather bracers, set in a layering pattern like plate mail, covered her arms from the back of the hand to elbow, and the scuffed pauldrons came attached to stiff leather that encased her from the hollow of the neck to just beneath her breasts. A thick belt the span of a man’s hand wrapped easily around her narrow hips as well, and though no two pieces of leather were the same color or had the same wear, she felt a thrill of pride when she secured them to her body.<br/><br/>Her silly groom’s cap, of course, had been one of the first things to go. The gold-streaked mop of hair had been tamed in a different way: the bulk of it now stayed braided low on her scalp, though she was unused to doing so and the twisted locks often had as many stray strands as captured. Rather than cut her bangs short, she had braided them into smaller versions of the one in back and tucked them into the hair stretched over the top; the result was a totally clear face, save for the odd little twist that refused to be corralled and stubbornly hung just to the side of her left eye. It made for a rather messy, piecemeal style, but she<span style="font-style: italic">could</span>see and so far no one had been able to use the short, thick braid against her. Something about keeping her face open to the world brought about a change in her posture that was quickly becoming permanent: her shoulders stayed back, even when relaxed, and though her spine still tended to curve it was always languidly to the side rather than defensively inward. It made avoiding Sir Derrald almost completely unnecessary; he searched for a slouched young man with a hat and dirty bangs, so this inquisitive, blonde woman held no recognition for him. Still, she did not seek him, or any of the men from Lebidan. Sen had been keeping close to the female fighters, and otherwise kept to the outskirts. Even if her raw, untested lack of scarring or muscle marked her as different from the rest of them, at least she looked like she was probably in the right place. The recruit did her best to avoid eye contact with almost everyone, and fortunately her previous lifestyle had enabled the perfection of a “quickly forgotten” image.<br/><br/>Not that it helped her much right now. The dull end of the pole came whizzing toward her again and she managed to avoid it by bending backwards, unwilling to tip forward and sacrifice more balance than was necessary.<br/><br/>“Just<span style="font-style: italic">once</span>!” came Verana’s instructive voice (though it sounded more like a taunt at this point).<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Light, woman, <span style="text-decoration: underline">how</span>?</span>, came the thought as the offensive instrument came back for another attempt. She was starting to get irritated, not so much with Verana as the situation. Sen could even feel a tiny animalistic growl rising in the back of her throat, though she didn’t vocalize. Her brows tilted downward in a mixture of stubbornness and concentration and she let her unlocked knees bend a bit more, bringing her lower to the beam.<span style="font-style: italic">Never let them see you sweat</span>, she thought to herself, like a little affirming mantra. Her current opponent didn’t really count as “them”, she was sure, but it was the principle of the thing and this<span style="font-style: italic">was</span>training for reality. Though her ire had started to snowball, her face remained a mask of unemotional concentration.<br/><br/>* “Three more people died while you’ve been practicing for your honeymoon!” *<br/><br/>Hot indignation flashed through Sen’s eyes despite her wishes, pupils shrinking. She was unable to charge, given the two-dimensional nature of the terrain, but it would be difficult to call her next move anything other than that. She sprang toward Verana in a cobra-like strike, sacrificing all of her balance to a heady momentum. Time slowed and she felt a solid whack from the pole, but she was already close enough that it had come from the base of the instrument and couldn’t gather enough latent energy. However, the Maiden’s other hand shot forward to meet her charge with a solid set of knuckles, somehow backed with firm power that belied her sleek figure. Sen felt the wind rush from her lungs for what felt like the twelve-thousandth time that week, but rather than immediately crumbling and toppling from the beam, she braced her weight against the fist and struck out for Verana’s feet with her own. The first leg of the opposing woman managed to dance away, but the nature of their arena was awkward at the best of times. With a small jump, the red-haired woman avoided the kick with her other leg: but found both calves entwined with Seniré’s own lengthy limb. There was no time for the instinct-driven woman to enjoy her questionable “victory”, as the two of them promptly slipped from the smooth surface of the trunk. The Maiden easily caught herself, hands finding the proper purchase so that her body swung effortlessly down, feet dangling not far from the ground.<br/><br/>Sen, however, landed on her face.<br/><br/>She remained still for a moment, letting the flashing bursts of light fade from her vision before re-opening her eyes. The faint taste of blood lingered on her tongue and the deep ache in her already over-worked muscles sharpened, dutifully alerting her to the new bruises that would definitely show their blue-black faces presently. The trainee yanked herself slowly into a sitting position just in time to see her sometimes-mentor drop calmly from the beam.<br/><br/>“That doesn’t count,” she said, but Sen could hear the smile even before she found it on the woman’s face.<br/><br/>Twin rose-colored eyes blinked blankly, then closed as a matching smile tilted her own thin lips. She casually wiped the thin line of blood that had dripped from the corner of her mouth onto her shoulder, succeeding in more of a smear than a removal, then hauled herself awkwardly to her feet. Verana talked as she sliced through the bindings around her wrists, her voice instructional but not unkind.<br/><br/>* “The idea,” she started, with only a hint of exasperation, “is to be able to shift balance without sacrificing speed or form. You cannot outlast a Tutar, as they are powerful and do not tire. Your only hope, then, is to kill them while you still can, and to do so you will need to not only evade, but also land some hits of your own. And those hits will need to have something behind them, otherwise you will merely be swatting the flies off of their backsides for them."<br/><br/>She regarded Sen for a moment, her lips pursed in thought.<br/><br/>"You've demonstrated some instinct and you can move, but you will<span style="font-style: italic">eventually</span>need to display some ability with counterattacking. You cannot sacrifice power in the interest of dodging. Just… re-direct it. Don’t waste the momentum, use it. And for the love of Naiya, lower your center.” She paused, a short, firm little sigh puncturing the brief silence.<br/><br/>"Your people… this is new to them. I have seen how they watch us, half of them disbelieving and the other half unnerved or vexed. And the ladies, they stare with eyes wide, and I know they wonder if they too can pick up steel and defend their lands. That is why you are… important."<br/><br/>There was a silence, while the last word hung in the air for so long Sen wasn't sure if that was actually what the Maiden had said. * She tilted her head, expression shifting into a something both seeking and a little concerned. Seniré rubbed the rope impressions from the skin of her wrists, eyes strangely intense and fixed on Verana.<br/><br/>* "If I can make you into the type of soldier that can survive, then you could possibly be a sort of standard, something they can look to, that can show them it is possible. There is a considerable supply of untapped potential behind Lebidan's walls, and if we are to make the most of it, it begins with you. You must succeed- you are the first, and a quick death for you would not do much for our cause. That is why I will do whatever it takes to keep you alive, Sen."<br/><br/>There was a fire blazing in Verana's eyes that made Sen jolt back a fraction of an inch, as though given a static shock.<br/><br/>"<span style="font-style: italic">Whatever</span>it takes."<br/><br/>She paused, the smoldering heat of her eyes calming into the more-familiar bright clarity. Sen thought she looked just faintly reflective. When the pale woman spoke again, her words came with an audible note of amusement. “If you’re going down, it won’t be alone, hm?” she half-chuckled, obviously referring to Sen’s charge-and-tangle. “Not a horrible style. Not particularly good either, but it beats dying pointlessly, I suppose. Perhaps this way the next person will finish them off while they're busy pulling free of your limbs. ” *<br/><br/>The Lebi exhaled audibly, tension dropping from her shoulders and tiny smile tilting her lips once more. That was surprisingly close to a "good job" and even though it had been made clear that she had not passed this particular session with flying colors, the storkish young woman rather felt a little tingle of victory along the surface of her skin. Or maybe it was just the bruises.