<div class="floatright">(http://images.fanpop.com/images/image_uploads/Details-Magazine-christina-ricci-688022_387_500.jpg)</div>Abigail exhaled through her nose as the Lady High Pigfucker dismounted and translated her queer looking companion's speech, speech she had struggled to make sense of. Her lip curled into a sneer<br/><br/><em>A Lady On High,</em>she thought,<em>and worse again, a drunkard it would seem.</em>Abigail shuddered, and her left hand slipped back to touch the skull lashed to her backpack reassuringly. A warm, coaxing melt set in over her heart and she started to relax.<br/><br/>The second rider had introduced herself as hailing from the Krastov lands. An odd sensation rippled through Abigail, harkening to a distant memory, of Krastovs and foreigners and Riders in Black...somewhere, Lenore cawed, and Abigail chided her silently and tried to put dark thoughts from her head.<br/><br/>Abigail's attentions were snapped back by the Lady's mention of the spirit. Her eyes locked onto the lady, and she tilted her head in contemplation. She had, at first, assumed the talk of spirits to be peasant superstition - Abigail knew, better than most, that it did not take much to rally a Lupravian village to torches and pitchforks. But Abigail could sense the growing trepidation as the hour drew nigh; and now, with the arrival of so colourful a menagerie of foreigners, subhumans and even a Lady of the Krastovs...she was just about willing to believe. Her finger tapped her father's jaw in a staccato beat as she thought, then she stepped forwards, intentionally putting herself between the riders and Peter. The Headman's authority ended at the village border stones; Abigail's wouldn't even relinquish its grip in death.<br/><br/>"What know you of the spirit?" she demanded to the Lady, gaze boring into hers. "And how mean you to challenge it with a drunken..." she regarded her companion, at a loss for words, "...miniature Frost Giant?" Abigail had, truthfully, never seen a Frost Giant before, save for a rendering in coal and dyes in one of Istvan's books from the north. The colouring of the Lady's axeman reminded her of the drawing more than a little. "What does a Lady presume to know about undeath?" she felt the crowd stiffen behind her as a ripple of consternation trickled through the front rows. It brought an unbidden smile to Abigail's lips. She'd been in Tahnok less a week, and yet her reputation was already cemented in stone.<em>I am not a witch,</em>she had professed, time and time again, echoing the sentiments of her master. A few of the sharper peasantfolk had gotten the message; from that day forwards, their children were forbidden from trying to play with the ashen-faced 16 year old who moved things with her mind. It suited Abigail; better to be left alone, than subjected to the worrying attentions of peasants. She banished her thoughts, and gave order for Lenore to start a slow circle of the village, on the lookout for any more travellers. She had not yet turned her gaze to the fucking Stonelicker, but she'd bet a room and a hot meal at the Ivy that the thrice-fucked dwarf was here for the same reason as the Krastov. Holding her gaze, she repeated her demand of the Lady.<br/><br/>"What knows a Krastov of undeath?"