“Don’t forget the sollerets, boy.” The older man’s voice was quiet, but painfully aristocratic. Sir Derrald made no secret of his knighthood, particularly not here in the midst of warriors from a neighboring nation, but his too-proper pronunciations and constant manner of staring down his nose shifted him from the “useful” knights to the “ornamental” ones. At least, it rather did to Seniré; not that it was a surprise.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">”Y-yessir,”</span></span>she muttered, careful to add a husk to her voice and slur ever so slightly. Adding depth to her voice only made her sound like a female with a head cold, so she had fallen back to the old standby of speaking as little as possible. When it did become necessary, she had adopted an uneducated twang and a throatiness that could, if not really analyzed, pass for masculine… and who stood around contemplating the pitch of a simple groom’s voice?<br/><br/>Seniré had been blending into the background for far longer than her time in the army camps. The life of a second daughter in a family with male heirs was not exactly the spotlight in the best of situations, and her own uniqueness had made her situation far from the best. If she was, for any reason, afforded more attention than minimal, it was never good. Breaking her dance instructors toes, dropping the priceless Thaam vase in the main hall, spilling the wine over the pristine white tablecloths during a salon with the wives of the finest lords… even simple things, like lacing her stockings properly or making polite conversation with an eligible lordling seemed far beyond her capabilities. It hardly helped that her siblings glistened with perfection everywhere they went; even now, one of her elder brothers had just returned from a brief skirmish, his armor a little blood-spattered but looking no worse for the wear. With his helm removed, Emmet Brigham looked every bit the proper young lord, with his thick blonde hair, noble profile and a smile that had ladies swooning within minutes.<br/><br/>Well, not<span style="font-style: italic">all</span>ladies.<br/><br/>As she knelt, scrubbing the polishing rag against the metal foot-coverings, her eyes flickered to the side; between the locks of mud-colored bang, she could see the slender group of warriors as they returned from the ambush.<br/><br/>They wore no lace or silk, no embroidered dresses that swept the ground as they walked. Their hair was almost universally cut short, and those who had any length kept it tied close to their scalp, rather than a wave of maintained tresses or a pleat of the highest fashion. There was not a dollop of paint on any lips, nor a smudge of rouge, nor even a lick of black kohl, but to Seniré these women epitomized the ideal of the confident female. Well-maintained, if somewhat worn or old armor fit easily onto their ropes of sinewy muscle, worn as naturally as the scars that dotted their weather-beaten flesh, and the weapons that they carried seemed little more than an extension of their bodies. They moved with grace, but not the sort of grace one could find in a ball; rather, it was forward, direct, with no wasted flourishes or extravagance. Not a single pair of eyes fell demurely to the ground at the sight of a lord –or anyone, really- and there were no annoying giggles or nonsensical chattering, merely conversations and the occasional smile.<br/><br/>The young Brigham felt her heart ache, a keen twist in her chest.<br/><br/>“Such a thing,” she heard from the knight, his arms crossed as he glanced to the Linden warriors with a look of ill-concealed disdain, “women on the battlefield. What can they do,<span style="font-style: italic">charm</span>the Tutari away?”<br/><br/>Seniré bit the inside of her cheek, wondering how he could say such things even as the women wiped huge amounts of viscous blood from their weapons. He had not even been in the recent battle, since the forces had already started to return by the time his horse had been suitably armored and his shield properly polished. If anyone had seemed intent on charming the enemy into submission, it had been him. The disguised lord’s daughter finished scrubbing the sollerets and rose to her feet, keeping her face lowered behind her bangs and shoulders hunched close.<br/><br/>The defensive posture made it hard for an observer to see her face, but she could see her own features mirrored clearly in the gleaming chest plate. A straight nose, just a little too long in typical Brigham fashion, set alongside high cheekbones that mimicked her brothers but had been spared her beautiful sister. The lovelier daughter had developed a soft, round face, and while Seniré hadn’t the angular jaw of her father she had been stuck with his sharp chin and high forehead; many of the servants had whispered that the only reason she had been allowed to stay with the family was that she would never pass for the daughter of another. They hadn’t known her proximity when they had whispered, of course. Her sister had inherited their mother’s lips, a luscious pink bow of a mouth, but it was Lord Brigham’s thin, flat frown of disapproval that met her own reflection.<br/><br/>Her eyes were a bit of an anomaly, unshared by either parent or any sibling. Though a little too wide, they were well-shaped, with matching banners of thick, black lashes and a deep setting that seemed to give them a permanently grey outline. That was not the strange part, however; the strange part was the color. A pale pink, almost the shade of a drained red but with just a hint of natural brightness that made “pink” the only fitting description, set the background, leaving the foreground to the slivers and flecks of dark gold that seemed to spring from her pupil, only reaching halfway across her wide irises. She had seen paintings of animals with such a color of eye, but they had been pure white of coat and fair of skin, neither of which applied to her. Reaction to her eye color, for those who gave enough attention to it, had been mixed; some recoiled from the strangeness with a quickness that suggested instinct, while yet others tried to study and stare despite her obvious discomfort. She thought perhaps they believed she could not tell what they were doing, that she would think they were merely making polite eye contact. The twin balls of pink hovered just above the Brigham<a class="postlink" href="http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs19/f/2007/227/a/b/Evenfall___Corona_Coat_of_Arms_by_Pat_Ch.png">crest</a>painted on the gleaming silver armor; the three set of feather wings gleamed in their dark outline, wings that she had seen every day of her life. Sometimes, she desired only to take them from the shields and crests and –<br/><br/>“Don’t touch it with your hands, foolish child,” came the impetuous voice of the knight, and Seniré froze, fingers outstretched as though to touch the feather’s depicted on the armor’s surface. She dropped her limb and face, feeling the heat rise from her neck to her ears in embarrassment. Now was not the time to lose focus!<br/><br/>The older knight sniffed, his expression more than a little disgusted. “This is why you will never be a squire, boy. You know nothing of even the most rudimentary protocol. Go see to my horse, and<span style="font-style: italic">do</span>be quick about it this time.”<br/><br/>She spun on her heel and hurried away, eager to be out from under the eyes of Brigham men. The young woman was uncertain if her father had been a part of the recent fray, but she had seen both of her brothers depart with a small company of men, the etched silver wings of their shoulder pauldrons easily visible within the folds of warriors. She had yet to see the younger of them return, but her attention had been monopolized by her patron so she hadn’t exactly been keeping watch. They may not have had very large roles in her life, but she hardly wanted to see either of them piled into a heap with the rest of the dead; they were her brothers, and while she embarrassed them just as much as she did the rest of her family, they had been better than most about finding the humor in it. A quiet smile tilted her thin lips. Yes, she did love her family, despite everything.<br/><br/>A soft nicker brought her away from her thoughts. Sir Derrald’s steed, an eighteen-hand behemoth with a dapple grey coat, flared his nostrils and perked his ears at her approach, whickering again as she proffered the bit of apple core from the pocket of her jerkin. His leathery lips inhaled the treat and Seniré sighed deeply, feeling a massive amount of tension drain from her shoulders and back as the smell of hay and horse sweat washed over her. The mounts for the men were mostly tethered or staked in bunches on the outskirts of the camps, though a few were kept closer to their riders, and the lord’s daughter had found that she could obtain a modicum of privacy amongst them. The only humans that tended to come this way were her fellow grooms, all of them either too busy or too uncaring to pay her even a single glance; and if chance should send a knight or warrior of higher standing to fetch his own creature, it was not difficult to hide behind the walls of flesh and muscle that dotted the little makeshift paddock. Seniré had always loved animals and enjoyed sneaking off to brush the horses, even back in her father’s estate; the fact that they were now her only source of solitude was merely an added bonus.<br/><br/>With the slow, clumsy fingers of someone still getting used to it, she started to unlatch the bits of armor that still hung from the steed’s bulky frame. It was very like her patron, to insist that she shine his own armor before even relieving the horse of his; she was not even his squire, but<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>boy hadn’t been seen for almost twelve hours. The heavy plates clanked to the ground and the horse gave his skin an appreciative shiver, shaking his head before dropping it back down into the hay.<br/><br/>She never heard anything, right up until the thick<span style="font-style: italic">shunk</span>of the club against the base of her skull. Her vision went black and she fell against the armor, still warm with the body heat of the animal, her hold on consciousness tenuous. Faintly, as though very far away, she could hear a small squeal from the grey horse and the hurried, frustrated words of a man. The tinkling of a bridle sent a shot of strength through her, and rather than giving in to the darkness she forced her eyes open, but they refused to focus on the swirling world. Seniré could make him out though; a man, dressed in plainclothes, fumbling with the gray’s bit.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">”St-stop… that’s not – “</span></span>her words sounded thick and her tongue wasn’t being cooperative, but she managed to lift her torso from the ground, keeping her face toward the intruder. He jerked his eyes down to her, and though he was close she could not truly identify his features.<br/><br/>“Got a thick skull, eh lad.” The words were nonchalant, but the boot that connected with her gut was anything but that.<br/><br/>As though the foot had popped a bubble, anger broke forth over her insides, spilling and seeping through all of her limbs like a tangible liquid. Her sunrise-eyes flew open as she doubled over in pain, but she knew there was no way he would let her recover and Seniré instinctively fell backwards, adrenaline clarifying her vision of the approaching figure. She didn’t recognize him, but she didn’t need to; the sight of a short knife in his hand was more than enough. “Should’ve stayed down,” he said coldly.<br/><br/>There was a spot in the back of her mind that knew she was supposed to be scared. She wasn’t trained for this, not prepared in the least, and no one had ever threatened her with a comedic slap let alone a<span style="font-style: italic">knife</span>. That voice was drowned out by the anger, overwhelmed into silence by the righteous fury that had flooded her with hot blood. The<span style="font-style: italic">nerve</span>. She had traveled all this way, suffered all of the whims and wants of a foolish old man, had not had a proper bath in far too long and this, this<span style="font-style: italic">beast</span>was going to take away the one thing that had brought her a modicum of solace. If he took that horse, she would be dismissed from service and probably charged with theft; the best that could happen would be discovery, and the worst would probably be death. And now, on top of all that, he sought to end her life here and now! Why? Because she had decided not to let him just… just do as he pleased?<br/><br/>Seniré didn’t know how she knew it would be there, but her left hand rose from the dirt and firmly grasped the handle of the pitchfork, and in the same movement she slung the top of it around her body. As soon as she felt it connect with his temple, she scrambled to her feet and wrapped her right hand around it as well, brandishing it like a thick wooden spear instead of a famer’s tool.<br/><br/>The man in black paused, whether from the blow to the head or the realization that the groom had a bit of bite, but came again with a renewed purpose. He shoved the end of the pitchfork over and lunged toward her. Unsure of anything except for her own very personal emotions, she lifted a long leg and shot a solid kick directly into the deserter’s groin. The fork may have been a helpful tool, but why he had assumed she no longer had working limbs evaded her. For the first time in her life, Seniré didn’t feel precarious or clumsy; she watched as he collapsed to the ground with a grunt of pain, both hands clutching his inseam, and leveled another kick to the side of his head, still entrenched in her righteous cause.<br/><br/>With a precision that she had never known in all her years, she put one boot on the wrist of his left hand and carefully positioned the tined fork of the tool a few inches above the apple of his throat.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">”I said,”</span></span>she clearly articulated, forgetting to add husk or slur,<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">”<span style="font-style: italic">Stop</span>.”</span></span>