<div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/d8/RowanPF.jpg)  </div><strong>Rowan Riks</strong>(https://elliquiy.com/wiki/File:Rowan.pdf)<br/><strong>Tagging</strong>: Amanda, Florica, Corporal Will<br/><strong>Status</strong>:<br/><strong>Rolls</strong>:<br/><br/>Rowan's first action upon walking into her room at the inn is to stare, stupidly, at the single bed, then turn around and check the corners.  "Is this for<i>real</i>?" she asks no one in particular, having never had real privacy of this like-- I mean, a room?  When the inkeeper said as much, she was quite impressed, but she'd managed to contain it, figuring it a roped-off curtain-area amid a dozen other women.  I mean... room to oneself doesn't mean A room to oneself...?!<br/><br/>She turns about and fiddles with the brass key in her hand, noting that it fits the lock on the door and, while there is perhaps room for another in the bed, they have apparently furnished it for one.<i>"Bloody marvelous!"</i>she hisses, dropping her gear and flinging herself onto the bed cover, her petite form producing an audible creak on the rustic frame and causing the post to bang into the wall adjoining Florica's room next door.  The straw-stuffed matress is quite soft, yes, but certainly to pounce upon it repeatedly would ruin the effect, so she regathers herself with a giggle and tumbles onto the open floor with a giggle.  "I've never had so much<i>stuff</i>, she grins, and begins poking about the furnishings.  "Well, okay, so not so much stuff, but... so much room to PUT stuff."<br/><br/>She grins at the window and looks down, spotting a young man in the dirt lane below-- naturally, he's shocked at the sudden manifestation of the manic as a wood sprite in the window above.  "AH!  I'm above you right now!" she calls at the glass, waving and grinning.  The lad shrinks and bolts, kicking up broken clamshell paversas he digs long strides as if to fly way.  "Oh.  Well, good afternoon then!" she waves after, shrugging, and turns back to the room.<br/><br/>For a few moments she stares out at what she can see of the wharf and the sea, then fiddles with the window catch until she manages to open she shutters and let in the breeze of the bay, the distant whisper of surf, the smells of the sea.  She smiles there, savoring that moment of peace, for a long while before she turns back to her room, closes her door, and locks it from the inside.<br/><br/>It's then that the uncertainty settles in... she's to go to dinner, and be joined by real company.  Has she "arrived", hm?  Is she to impress someone?  Well, how will she impress them?<br/><br/>Untying the leather cords and loosening the buckles and straps that keep her armor tight to her body like a second skin, she sighs softly as air meets the places she had forgotten could feel.  And with each piece that she arranges in the armoire chest, she feels lighter, but less substantial.  Slighter and more vulnerable.  Soon, she has the discomforting reminder that she's been wearing the same armor padding for many weeks, and that-- without a doubt, its character is nothing short of... earthy.  Seizing the wash basin and a cloth, she snatches up the saddle-soap from her kit and, in her smallclothes, sets about scrubbing the leather and padding with the conditioning oil and ash-tallow base that will keep the leather supple, protect it from moisture, and rid it of the smell of her sweat.<br/><br/>It takes a while, and her arms and fingers ache from the effort.  Dark is encroaching, and she can hear guests starting to gather downstairs for dinner... the focus upon her armor was good, she decides... grounding.  It was a tether to the reality of this place.  After carefully encasing her kit in the armoire, she sheds her smallclothes and paces her way to the window, tossing out the saddle-soaped water to the street below.  There's a yowl, like a cat caught by surprise-- she stares, realizing that the youth from before had returned and was... well... apparently catching an eyeful before catching a literal faceful... and now is retreating down the path with the same alacrity as his earlier retreat.<br/><br/>"Well--" says Rowan, closing the shutter back with a resigned shrug.  "S'pose that's a lesson for you."  She refills the basin and performs a quick wash-down of herself, at once thankful and regretful that she doesn't own a mirror to ensure the job's thorough.  The uncertainty is setting in again, and she can't help but pause-- when her fingertips brush over her hips, her inward slanting stomach, her breasts... is she attractive?  Would a man want her like other women?  Or like a strumpet..?  Is that a good thing at all, or would it even matter?  And then, when the washrag bumped over the familiar, raised scars-- white slits like animal eyes shut against the light-- she wonders if there is not some permanent shame in her that will never heal.  Who could possibly... and would she ever -not- remember--?<br/><br/>A knock upon the door, gentle, almost motherly.  Very strange, actually, to not be yelled at before the knock from downstairs or have a cursing threat preceed any address.  "Excuse us, Miss, dinner's on-- your companions are already present."<br/><br/>"Right," she says softly as she heads for her secondhand clothes.  At least they were clean, she having brushed them down before packing them away.  "To dinner," she says, making a charicature of a stodgy official of some sort, "<i>You will be dining with the finest people in town this evening.  Make a fine impression young lady... bur bur bur...</i>"<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>At dinner in her traveler's clothes, Rowan looks a bit more nervous than usual.  She's not used to being around so many strangers, and as such she's seated herself carefully between Florica and Amanda for protection.  The smell of the food is tantalizing enough that she's practically drooling when the bread is served, but manages not to make a complete fool of herself despite stashing a couple of rolls on her platter just in case.  The sage-apple ale of Amanda's choosing has drawn her notice more than once, and she's asked for a bit of it here and there-- just enough to put a sparkle in her eye and reduce any self-consciousness she might have about the volume of her laugh when she and the girls make a joke, or when Florica's teasing innuendo heads in her direction... it seems she's immune to it tonight, playing right back at it with a jovial acceptance, and eventually the only sign of her self-consciousness is an occasional pantomimed shock, the lowering of her voice on a reply followed by a girlish laugh, or the hiding of her face behind a hand from time to time.<br/><br/>When Amanda drops her napkin, Rowan gives her a chiding look, completely unaware of the constable's entrance as she was momentarily distracted by a flourish of freshly-introduced food... for a girl of her size, she seems to have quite an appetite.  "Did lugging about all that armor pull your back out, dear?" she asks jokingly, twisting and standing to reach for the cloth in such a way to fall utterly and embarrassingly for the ruse.  Her boyish breeches, tailored for someone built quite differently from her flared-hipped frame, sag scandalously low as she stoops, and she giggles a bit before crouching, ass in the air, to retrieve it, making a failed effort do do so with any account of modesty.  All the walking's done nothing to flatten her bottom, and carrying armor and gear for hours of exercise and tumbling has given that rump a rounded lift that is... well... dilectable... on her thin frame.<br/><br/>She straightens, drops the square back into Amanda's lap, and grins.  "Alright, call me Grace I suppose.  Hope nobody saw--" and she meets the constable's eyes as he arrives at their table, "-- that... was... an unfortunate accident, I must say.  Bench must have given right out from under me.  Glad I was able to fix it.  Many carpenters in my home town, you know.  And-- Well oh my, it's our good host, and how do you do good sir, you look positively..." her eyes dart over him from knees to hairline, with many detours in between, "... delicious...  meal we're having.  Please join us."  She sits hard upon the bench and grabs Florica's knee with one hand, Amanda's with the other, her nails digging in softly as she goes completely rigid with her eyes wide as a frozen doe's.