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runicloreLike whoa, the hundredth post! I need to write more, obviously.
Lyrics for "A-Rovin’ / Amsterdam Maid" from ARRR!!! - I didn't ask, but I hope they don't mind as long as I credit. Poetry is my weak point, and I thought it would be best to spare you the pain of seeing me try. :p Edited out the "Amsterdam" part for obvious reasons. My choice of replacements is... a private joke. :p
......................................
Winters on the Border Range between Villnore and Crell Monferaigne started early in the year and ended late, when the rest of the world was already blanketed in falling spring blossoms and making way for summer. No crops terraced the slopes above the snow line; they were too steep, and the season without snow that the residents tentatively called 'spring' was only a fleeting daydream. Mining was the industry of the mountains, and it continued well into the snowy season. Ore was stockpiled for shipment during the fairer months. The miners and their overseers, familiar with the passes and the caprise of the mountain weather, knew when to work and when to hole up in their towns to wait out the worst of the storms.
Visitors often did not. Claira had endured the long hike to Berri clinging to a rumor of an ancient city buried in the forgotten heights, and her research assured her this area was as close as she could come and remain in civilized territory. That was too generous a term for a mining town in her opinion. She arrived in time for the first blizzard of the season, and the morning she rose ready to hike to the next ridge, snow was already piled in drifts so high the doors couldn't be opened without risk of a localized avalanche.
So it was that her first day in Berri found Claira huddled in a seat by the fireplace, in her thickest woolen dress and wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. She sipped mulled wine that was a touch too bitter and listened to the wind howl and shake the shutters on the higher storeys, where the snow had not yet drifted. The walls within were thin to the point of obscenity, and the floors too were shoddily constructed; if she glanced up at the right time, she could see light filtering through the cracks between the boards, and the shadows of people walking.
Nearly all of Berri's citizens were men. Too many of them were looking in her direction. Claira tried not to think of what could be seen through the floor of her room, and vowed to snuff the lamp before she dared to undress. She would even do without a fire if she had to. Why was it that money could buy her a fireplace and finer linens, but not privacy?
She avoided the curious gazes of the tavern's patrons by riveting her eyes to the fire, and turning her thoughts to what was left of her plans to explore. Clearly, she had underestimated the ferocity of the winters up here, and would benefit from seeking advice from the more experienced. Whether there was a man - or, if the gods were kind, a woman - with the good will to answer her questions, however, she didn't know. And she wasn't eager to ask around just yet. She'd wintered in many places during her travels, and with blizzards always came boredom, and from there, the human nature was entirely too unpredictable for her to trust.
A shadow jumped on the wall in her peripheral vision, and made Claira look up. The waitress - one of the few women she'd seen since arriving - smiled with a saucy tilt to her lips. "You ordered soup and bread, right?" She slid her tray onto the table without waiting for an answer. "Need anything else?"
To say the girl was unusual for Berri and its neighbors would have been too kind. She was pretty, but her silvery hair and upright carriage belonged to a more civilized place. "Water, if you please."
Claira watched the girl's back as she returned to the kitchen. She was dressed like the miners, in thick padded trowsers and fir-lined boots, and a lace-up shirt. She'd wrapped herself with a shawl so worn and blackened by smoke that it was hard to tell if it had ever seen better days. Yet her hair was clean and neatly braided, and her stride was confident. She held the tray as if she expected to slit throats with it at any moment. Given the company a waitress surely had in this place, perhaps that wasn't far off the mark.
The girl returned with a wooden goblet, and placed it on the table with a little more finesse. "It's melted snow," she said with a grimace. "But it's clean, and so is the cup. The well's frozen over, and you can expect more of the same until spring."
"Good enough," Claira said, straightening. "Thank you."
The snow melted slowly and the food was bland. The next three days were much the same. Adolescence in Flenceburg hadn't prepared Claira for the monotony of blizzards. She tried to count her blessings; the food wasn't spoiled, nor the snow. And if she turned no few men from her door in disgust, at least they went without a fuss. She wouldn't have felt bad about burning the place down with an ill-placed spell, but it would only mean finding another inn with the same problems.
The blizzard abated on the fourth day. Afternoon light shone through her window on the top storey, and below came the din of the house's other inmates, drafted into the ardorous task of clearing tunnels from the doors to the outbuildings and stables, through the snow packed against the walls. She took her dinner in her room that evening, and the girl appeared again for the first time since their last meeting, with a tray propped jauntily one on shoulder.
"You know," she said on her way out, "I saw you come in a few days ago decked out for riding." She shrugged when Claira lofted an eyebrow. "Just saying, you might want to keep dressing that way. Wear a skirt, and they get ideas."
"Apparently," Claira murmured under her breath.
The waitress laughed. "It's warmer this way anyway." She plucked at her pants and posed to show off her boots. "Friendly tip, okay? They'll keep coming as long as you look pretty, but put on a pair of pants and they're intimidated." She cracked her saucy smile and then paused, a hand on her hip, and said, "It helps if you give them a kick on the way out, too."
Claira breathed a laugh and shook her head. "I"ll keep that in mind. Thanks."
"Enjoy!" The girl saluted and slipped out the door.
That night she set her riding clothes out again and scooped snow from outside her window - quaint, when one could do that from the third storey - to fill a basin to wash her hair and bathe as well as she could. Dirt and grime were expected on a journey, but it seemed she was in for an extended stay, and there was no reason to stay dirty.
Her mother would have been appalled. Even Claira was at times, when she thought of what she endured on the road. If going home were feasible, she didn't think she'd ever leave the city again.
The path of the exile was a difficult one. She supposed she was lucky to have kept her job, and regretted shirking that duty for the rumors that led her to the mines.
Paths were carved between Berri's buildings as the days wore on, and Claira was able to purchase clothing more suitable for the environment. The waitress's advice, though unlooked for, stood her in good stead. When she dressed like them and kept her hair tucked under a cap, the attention paid to her gender grew less frequent.
She learned the girl's name was Ashlin, and that she hailed from farther north and east in Crell Monferaigne, where she served at a shrine to the battle maiden. The history Ashlin presented made no sense in context with her current circumstances. If she was trained as a priestess, why had she left? Why serve in such a vulgar place when her mother country put such great store in the monastic professions? But the details Claira noted about the girl, her habits and mannerisms, how unusually well-spoken she was for a tavern maid, gave the story a veneer of believability.
And who was Claira to judge, when her own story was more fantastic than reality permitted for most people on Midgard? The crime she took responsibility for was not supposed to be possible. She permitted herself to believe, because the girl's company, however fleeting, was a bright spot in an otherwise dull existence. The proprietor assured her the weather would calm enough to allow travel for a short time, but /when/ was a question he could not answer. His skill in reading the weather could not be expected to read the future.
She chafed at the delay. The longer she was trapped in Berri, the more opportunities she had to dwell on how irresponsible it was to make the journey to begin with. She had an appointment to winter with a family friend in Mosconi near the edge of Crell Monferaigne, and an assignment to tutor their daughter in return for hospitality. She was already quite late.
They'd never know she delayed apurpose if she didn't tell them. That was the only fortunate thing about this mess.
Her books were already on their way to the Mosconi residence - perhaps they had already arrived, ahead of their owner. She'd thought it unwise to bring them on a trip that would involve travel through snow, though Claira regretted leaving them all behind. She spent her days and evenings back and forth from the common room to her chambers, and if weather permitted, she braved the cold to experiment with a spell. The reprieve only lasted until the sun began to set. On Berri's side of the mountain the sun fell behind the crags in mid-afternoon, and the temperature plummeted soon after.
Claira returned from one such expedition after her second week of wintering at the inn to the dubious pleasure of seeing her dinner served by the inkeep himself. Rather than the usual bowl of hot and tasteless stew he placed before her a plate piled high with steaming slabs of meast and boiled potatos. Her eyebrows rose.
"Hunting was good," he grunted by way of explanation. "Boys're gonna be in for some entertainment in a bit, so if yer taste don't run that way--"
"I'll move to my room if necessary," Claira cut in. "Will Ashlin be out?"
His face, set into a permanent grimace, tightened a bit. "Yeah, she'll be out. Not fer serving, mind you."
"Of... course," she replied somewhat uncertainly. Her words fell on deaf ears, and she watched the broad expanse of his back recede and disappear behind the kitchen door. What /would/ Ashlin be out for, if not to serve tables? Had she finally been granted a well-earned break? The girl often complained about the workload when she came in to make Claira's bed and deliver the noonday meal.
The meat was terribly salty and otherwise unseasoned, but the potatoes made up for it, bland and flavored by some kind of broth. It was better fare than she'd had in weeks, and Claira savored it, tuning out the commotion of the miners and other guests returning from whatever it was they'd done with their time after the hunt. The wine was still a step up from ale, even watered down.
She turned her gaze to the fire. It was her habit to sit beside the hearth and think - usually to go over the route she planned to take down the mountain, as thinking about it was all she had opportunity to do - but her train of thought was disturbed by pounding and shouts when the other guests yelled for their entertainment. She came out obligingly, and Claira nearly dropped her goblet when Ashlin shoved someone twice her size away and leapt lightly onto the table at the center of the tavern.
"Remember boys, no touching. Got it?" Someone at the table whistled, and she feinted a kick at his face. "I mean it! Okay, let's go!"
Ashlin started by clapping a rhythm and keeping time with her foot until her audience echoed her. Her skirt was full and vivid blue, coming up just short of her ankles and whirling when she moved. A hint of lace peeked out below the hem, and Claira noticed several pairs of eyes already following the flair of her skirt when she started to dance.
She wasn't bad, though Claira had seen more professional shows in finer cities than Berri. Mine workers seemed easy enough to entertain. As she said, all it took was a pretty skirt.
The first round of dancing ended, and Ashlin dove immediately into a song.
In Yamato there lived a maid
Mark well what I do say
In Yamato there lived a maid
And she was mistress of her trade
I’ll go no more a-rovin’ with you, fair maid--
She spun gracefully, sending her skirt up in a flare of blue and lace, and grinned at Claira over her shoulder.
Her lips were red her eyes were brown…
Her hair was black and hanging down--
Claira felt her face heat when a few heads turned her way, but Ashlin spun again to face another knot of guests and spared her from more scrutiny. The song couldn't be over too soon. She breathed a sigh of relief when the girl finished with a flourish and leapt immediately into another dance. Another headache was coming on; she put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples with some effort. The noise of Ashlin's dancing and her appreciative audience merged to become meaningless noise.
The innkeep was right; she should have taken her meal elsewhere. Though Claira had to admit, it was quite an experience to see her acquaintance dance for the miners. She rarely stayed at establishments that condoned such entertainment. Spoiled and rich to the end, she thought - it hadn't even occurred to her earlier that the girl would have other functions besides 'maid' and 'waitress.' She hoped dancing was all this entailed.
"HEY!"
Claira's head jerked up at the yell. The rhythm stumbled to a stop and Ashlin hiked her skirt up and kicked someone away from the table, showing a flash of pale leg.
"I SAID no TOUCHING!" She leapt from the table and laid the man with a roundhouse kick, and sent him flying into the next table over.
He didn't rise, and no one tried to help him. The innkeep came bustling out of the kitchen with his hands held up placatingly. "Now Ashlin dear, he was just--"
"What did I tell you?" the girl snapped. "If you want a whore, you can haul your worthless carcasses over to Michelle's!" She spun on her heel to glare at the crowd, and a few of the men stepped back at the force of her gaze. She stalked away from the innkeep and they made way for her silently. "Entertainment's over, boys."
A few moments of silence followed her passage, until the shock wore off and the patrons began to talk amongst themselves. Claira rose and started to go after the girl, but the innkeep motioned for her to leave off and go upstairs instead, and after a moment of thought, she nodded and followed his advice. There was no telling what Ashlin would be like when she was angry, and they didn't know each other well enough that Claira wanted to risk her wrath.
She knew how to fight, certainly. The miner she'd kicked was still out cold when Claira returned to her room.
If Ashlin could down a man twice her size with one kick, why was she dancing in taverns instead of making her way by fighting? There was great demand for mercenaries of every kind in Artolia. Guarding merchant caravans was an easy life for an experienced fighter, or so she'd been told by the men and women she'd hired in the past. Better than war. Better than the boredom of border patrols.
Claira dwelled on that thought as she sat before the foggy mirror to brush her hair out. She had no guard now, and wasn't in great need of one, but if the girl was amendable, why not make an offer? A winter in the milder climate of Mosconi would allow them time to test their compatibility.
She took that thought to bed, and awoke to bright sunlight streaming through the cracks of her shutters and a persistent knocking at her door. Still half asleep, she stumbled out of bed to open it, and stared at Ashlin uncomprehending.
The girl grinned, showing too many teeth, and hefted a covered tray. "You want breakfast, don't you?"
Claira stepped aside to let her enter, and closed the door. "You're up early."
"I don't get a break since I stormed out like that," Ashlin said with a shrug, depositing the tray on the table and moving to fix the linens. "He's really stingy with his hours, the old bastard."
"I see." Claira sat down to unbraid her hair and brush it out. "Why do you put up with it? Surely there are better jobs waiting elsewhere."
She watched the girl for a reaction in the mirror, but all she got was another shrug. "Where else would I go? One place is as good as another. At least I get paid on time here."
"You can fight. Why not try a change of profession?"
Ashlin finally straightened from her work to meet her gaze in the mirror. "Why, are you offering?" she asked sharply. "Because it's easier said than done. A rich girl like you wouldn't understand that."
Claira set the brush aside and set about braiding her hair. "Yes, I'm offering."
The girl didn't say anything at first, though she looked slightly taken aback. Claira finished her braid and tossed it over her shoulder, deciding against anything more with another glance at the window. If this was the break in the weather she'd been hoping for, simple would be better. She went to push the shutters open and glanced outside. "Well? I can easily double whatever pay you get here, and I won't ask you to dance on tables for my entertainment." She lifted an eyebrow and squinted to look at the waitress through the stream of sunlight warming her face. "Unless of course you'd rather."
Ashlin snorted indelicately and gave the linens an unnecessary tug. "Let me think about it."
"Fair enough."
The other woman gave a curt nod and excused herself, leaving Claira alone to dress and eat her breakfast. She didn't have time to wonder what Ashlin would decide; arrangements had to be made for her departure, and those took the better part of the morning, leaving Claira to a late lunch and an even later dinner to be had after tromping across Berri in search of provisions at reasonable prices. She purchased enough for two and then some, on the principle that it was better to be prepared than sorry.
Ashlin came in again with her evening meal. "Offer still open?" she asked. Claira nodded. "Then I'm in. When do we leave?"
Claira permitted herself a smile of satisfaction. "Tomorrow morning after sunrise. Do you have adequate armor and equipment?"
"Yes and yes - but no horse. I've enough money to purchase one, but we won't find any here. It'll have to wait until we hit the foothills."
"We'll work that out tomorrow." Claira rubbed her temples and glanced at the candle. It had passed her mark. "Go eat and get some rest. We'll have to be up early."
Ashlin nodded curtly and turned to leave, pausing to flash a tentative smile over her shoulder before she slipped out the door. Her footsteps faded after the first flight of stairs, and Claira turned to her dinner.
That went well. If they found themselves compatible, she thought she wouldn't mind the company on her travels after all.
.......................................
This was supposed to be short.
I didn't give much of a description for Claira. It's something I thought about, but describing viewpoint characters always seems kind of silly to me - unless he or she is incredibly vain, they aren't going to interrupt their day with a contemplation of their own looks. *shrug* I tried to imply it with the song, which is part of the reason I chose it - it would be like Ashlin to sing something inspired by the only other woman in the room, just to tease her a little. (It's also just like Ashlin to pick something totally irrelevant to the time, place, and climate to sing.)
Claira is half-Japanese according to my original concept, and dresses mostly in dark, somber colors. Her hair is, of course, very dark brown, as are her eyes. Ashlin is almost pixie-like and otherworldly, because of course she is - she's one of the lesser valkyries.
Amy and I talked about this bit of story a lot, but didn't actually write it for IoM because it's history. By the time the IF starts, they've been traveling together for two years and have become friends.
The original plan involved a full scale bar fight, but I... was lazy. Sorry. :P
To make this a better story, I'd have to write out all of those dialogue scenes, and maybe do a few more things. Huh. I guess I could.
Lyrics for "A-Rovin’ / Amsterdam Maid" from ARRR!!! - I didn't ask, but I hope they don't mind as long as I credit. Poetry is my weak point, and I thought it would be best to spare you the pain of seeing me try. :p Edited out the "Amsterdam" part for obvious reasons. My choice of replacements is... a private joke. :p
......................................
Winters on the Border Range between Villnore and Crell Monferaigne started early in the year and ended late, when the rest of the world was already blanketed in falling spring blossoms and making way for summer. No crops terraced the slopes above the snow line; they were too steep, and the season without snow that the residents tentatively called 'spring' was only a fleeting daydream. Mining was the industry of the mountains, and it continued well into the snowy season. Ore was stockpiled for shipment during the fairer months. The miners and their overseers, familiar with the passes and the caprise of the mountain weather, knew when to work and when to hole up in their towns to wait out the worst of the storms.
Visitors often did not. Claira had endured the long hike to Berri clinging to a rumor of an ancient city buried in the forgotten heights, and her research assured her this area was as close as she could come and remain in civilized territory. That was too generous a term for a mining town in her opinion. She arrived in time for the first blizzard of the season, and the morning she rose ready to hike to the next ridge, snow was already piled in drifts so high the doors couldn't be opened without risk of a localized avalanche.
So it was that her first day in Berri found Claira huddled in a seat by the fireplace, in her thickest woolen dress and wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. She sipped mulled wine that was a touch too bitter and listened to the wind howl and shake the shutters on the higher storeys, where the snow had not yet drifted. The walls within were thin to the point of obscenity, and the floors too were shoddily constructed; if she glanced up at the right time, she could see light filtering through the cracks between the boards, and the shadows of people walking.
Nearly all of Berri's citizens were men. Too many of them were looking in her direction. Claira tried not to think of what could be seen through the floor of her room, and vowed to snuff the lamp before she dared to undress. She would even do without a fire if she had to. Why was it that money could buy her a fireplace and finer linens, but not privacy?
She avoided the curious gazes of the tavern's patrons by riveting her eyes to the fire, and turning her thoughts to what was left of her plans to explore. Clearly, she had underestimated the ferocity of the winters up here, and would benefit from seeking advice from the more experienced. Whether there was a man - or, if the gods were kind, a woman - with the good will to answer her questions, however, she didn't know. And she wasn't eager to ask around just yet. She'd wintered in many places during her travels, and with blizzards always came boredom, and from there, the human nature was entirely too unpredictable for her to trust.
A shadow jumped on the wall in her peripheral vision, and made Claira look up. The waitress - one of the few women she'd seen since arriving - smiled with a saucy tilt to her lips. "You ordered soup and bread, right?" She slid her tray onto the table without waiting for an answer. "Need anything else?"
To say the girl was unusual for Berri and its neighbors would have been too kind. She was pretty, but her silvery hair and upright carriage belonged to a more civilized place. "Water, if you please."
Claira watched the girl's back as she returned to the kitchen. She was dressed like the miners, in thick padded trowsers and fir-lined boots, and a lace-up shirt. She'd wrapped herself with a shawl so worn and blackened by smoke that it was hard to tell if it had ever seen better days. Yet her hair was clean and neatly braided, and her stride was confident. She held the tray as if she expected to slit throats with it at any moment. Given the company a waitress surely had in this place, perhaps that wasn't far off the mark.
The girl returned with a wooden goblet, and placed it on the table with a little more finesse. "It's melted snow," she said with a grimace. "But it's clean, and so is the cup. The well's frozen over, and you can expect more of the same until spring."
"Good enough," Claira said, straightening. "Thank you."
The snow melted slowly and the food was bland. The next three days were much the same. Adolescence in Flenceburg hadn't prepared Claira for the monotony of blizzards. She tried to count her blessings; the food wasn't spoiled, nor the snow. And if she turned no few men from her door in disgust, at least they went without a fuss. She wouldn't have felt bad about burning the place down with an ill-placed spell, but it would only mean finding another inn with the same problems.
The blizzard abated on the fourth day. Afternoon light shone through her window on the top storey, and below came the din of the house's other inmates, drafted into the ardorous task of clearing tunnels from the doors to the outbuildings and stables, through the snow packed against the walls. She took her dinner in her room that evening, and the girl appeared again for the first time since their last meeting, with a tray propped jauntily one on shoulder.
"You know," she said on her way out, "I saw you come in a few days ago decked out for riding." She shrugged when Claira lofted an eyebrow. "Just saying, you might want to keep dressing that way. Wear a skirt, and they get ideas."
"Apparently," Claira murmured under her breath.
The waitress laughed. "It's warmer this way anyway." She plucked at her pants and posed to show off her boots. "Friendly tip, okay? They'll keep coming as long as you look pretty, but put on a pair of pants and they're intimidated." She cracked her saucy smile and then paused, a hand on her hip, and said, "It helps if you give them a kick on the way out, too."
Claira breathed a laugh and shook her head. "I"ll keep that in mind. Thanks."
"Enjoy!" The girl saluted and slipped out the door.
That night she set her riding clothes out again and scooped snow from outside her window - quaint, when one could do that from the third storey - to fill a basin to wash her hair and bathe as well as she could. Dirt and grime were expected on a journey, but it seemed she was in for an extended stay, and there was no reason to stay dirty.
Her mother would have been appalled. Even Claira was at times, when she thought of what she endured on the road. If going home were feasible, she didn't think she'd ever leave the city again.
The path of the exile was a difficult one. She supposed she was lucky to have kept her job, and regretted shirking that duty for the rumors that led her to the mines.
Paths were carved between Berri's buildings as the days wore on, and Claira was able to purchase clothing more suitable for the environment. The waitress's advice, though unlooked for, stood her in good stead. When she dressed like them and kept her hair tucked under a cap, the attention paid to her gender grew less frequent.
She learned the girl's name was Ashlin, and that she hailed from farther north and east in Crell Monferaigne, where she served at a shrine to the battle maiden. The history Ashlin presented made no sense in context with her current circumstances. If she was trained as a priestess, why had she left? Why serve in such a vulgar place when her mother country put such great store in the monastic professions? But the details Claira noted about the girl, her habits and mannerisms, how unusually well-spoken she was for a tavern maid, gave the story a veneer of believability.
And who was Claira to judge, when her own story was more fantastic than reality permitted for most people on Midgard? The crime she took responsibility for was not supposed to be possible. She permitted herself to believe, because the girl's company, however fleeting, was a bright spot in an otherwise dull existence. The proprietor assured her the weather would calm enough to allow travel for a short time, but /when/ was a question he could not answer. His skill in reading the weather could not be expected to read the future.
She chafed at the delay. The longer she was trapped in Berri, the more opportunities she had to dwell on how irresponsible it was to make the journey to begin with. She had an appointment to winter with a family friend in Mosconi near the edge of Crell Monferaigne, and an assignment to tutor their daughter in return for hospitality. She was already quite late.
They'd never know she delayed apurpose if she didn't tell them. That was the only fortunate thing about this mess.
Her books were already on their way to the Mosconi residence - perhaps they had already arrived, ahead of their owner. She'd thought it unwise to bring them on a trip that would involve travel through snow, though Claira regretted leaving them all behind. She spent her days and evenings back and forth from the common room to her chambers, and if weather permitted, she braved the cold to experiment with a spell. The reprieve only lasted until the sun began to set. On Berri's side of the mountain the sun fell behind the crags in mid-afternoon, and the temperature plummeted soon after.
Claira returned from one such expedition after her second week of wintering at the inn to the dubious pleasure of seeing her dinner served by the inkeep himself. Rather than the usual bowl of hot and tasteless stew he placed before her a plate piled high with steaming slabs of meast and boiled potatos. Her eyebrows rose.
"Hunting was good," he grunted by way of explanation. "Boys're gonna be in for some entertainment in a bit, so if yer taste don't run that way--"
"I'll move to my room if necessary," Claira cut in. "Will Ashlin be out?"
His face, set into a permanent grimace, tightened a bit. "Yeah, she'll be out. Not fer serving, mind you."
"Of... course," she replied somewhat uncertainly. Her words fell on deaf ears, and she watched the broad expanse of his back recede and disappear behind the kitchen door. What /would/ Ashlin be out for, if not to serve tables? Had she finally been granted a well-earned break? The girl often complained about the workload when she came in to make Claira's bed and deliver the noonday meal.
The meat was terribly salty and otherwise unseasoned, but the potatoes made up for it, bland and flavored by some kind of broth. It was better fare than she'd had in weeks, and Claira savored it, tuning out the commotion of the miners and other guests returning from whatever it was they'd done with their time after the hunt. The wine was still a step up from ale, even watered down.
She turned her gaze to the fire. It was her habit to sit beside the hearth and think - usually to go over the route she planned to take down the mountain, as thinking about it was all she had opportunity to do - but her train of thought was disturbed by pounding and shouts when the other guests yelled for their entertainment. She came out obligingly, and Claira nearly dropped her goblet when Ashlin shoved someone twice her size away and leapt lightly onto the table at the center of the tavern.
"Remember boys, no touching. Got it?" Someone at the table whistled, and she feinted a kick at his face. "I mean it! Okay, let's go!"
Ashlin started by clapping a rhythm and keeping time with her foot until her audience echoed her. Her skirt was full and vivid blue, coming up just short of her ankles and whirling when she moved. A hint of lace peeked out below the hem, and Claira noticed several pairs of eyes already following the flair of her skirt when she started to dance.
She wasn't bad, though Claira had seen more professional shows in finer cities than Berri. Mine workers seemed easy enough to entertain. As she said, all it took was a pretty skirt.
The first round of dancing ended, and Ashlin dove immediately into a song.
In Yamato there lived a maid
Mark well what I do say
In Yamato there lived a maid
And she was mistress of her trade
I’ll go no more a-rovin’ with you, fair maid--
She spun gracefully, sending her skirt up in a flare of blue and lace, and grinned at Claira over her shoulder.
Her lips were red her eyes were brown…
Her hair was black and hanging down--
Claira felt her face heat when a few heads turned her way, but Ashlin spun again to face another knot of guests and spared her from more scrutiny. The song couldn't be over too soon. She breathed a sigh of relief when the girl finished with a flourish and leapt immediately into another dance. Another headache was coming on; she put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples with some effort. The noise of Ashlin's dancing and her appreciative audience merged to become meaningless noise.
The innkeep was right; she should have taken her meal elsewhere. Though Claira had to admit, it was quite an experience to see her acquaintance dance for the miners. She rarely stayed at establishments that condoned such entertainment. Spoiled and rich to the end, she thought - it hadn't even occurred to her earlier that the girl would have other functions besides 'maid' and 'waitress.' She hoped dancing was all this entailed.
"HEY!"
Claira's head jerked up at the yell. The rhythm stumbled to a stop and Ashlin hiked her skirt up and kicked someone away from the table, showing a flash of pale leg.
"I SAID no TOUCHING!" She leapt from the table and laid the man with a roundhouse kick, and sent him flying into the next table over.
He didn't rise, and no one tried to help him. The innkeep came bustling out of the kitchen with his hands held up placatingly. "Now Ashlin dear, he was just--"
"What did I tell you?" the girl snapped. "If you want a whore, you can haul your worthless carcasses over to Michelle's!" She spun on her heel to glare at the crowd, and a few of the men stepped back at the force of her gaze. She stalked away from the innkeep and they made way for her silently. "Entertainment's over, boys."
A few moments of silence followed her passage, until the shock wore off and the patrons began to talk amongst themselves. Claira rose and started to go after the girl, but the innkeep motioned for her to leave off and go upstairs instead, and after a moment of thought, she nodded and followed his advice. There was no telling what Ashlin would be like when she was angry, and they didn't know each other well enough that Claira wanted to risk her wrath.
She knew how to fight, certainly. The miner she'd kicked was still out cold when Claira returned to her room.
If Ashlin could down a man twice her size with one kick, why was she dancing in taverns instead of making her way by fighting? There was great demand for mercenaries of every kind in Artolia. Guarding merchant caravans was an easy life for an experienced fighter, or so she'd been told by the men and women she'd hired in the past. Better than war. Better than the boredom of border patrols.
Claira dwelled on that thought as she sat before the foggy mirror to brush her hair out. She had no guard now, and wasn't in great need of one, but if the girl was amendable, why not make an offer? A winter in the milder climate of Mosconi would allow them time to test their compatibility.
She took that thought to bed, and awoke to bright sunlight streaming through the cracks of her shutters and a persistent knocking at her door. Still half asleep, she stumbled out of bed to open it, and stared at Ashlin uncomprehending.
The girl grinned, showing too many teeth, and hefted a covered tray. "You want breakfast, don't you?"
Claira stepped aside to let her enter, and closed the door. "You're up early."
"I don't get a break since I stormed out like that," Ashlin said with a shrug, depositing the tray on the table and moving to fix the linens. "He's really stingy with his hours, the old bastard."
"I see." Claira sat down to unbraid her hair and brush it out. "Why do you put up with it? Surely there are better jobs waiting elsewhere."
She watched the girl for a reaction in the mirror, but all she got was another shrug. "Where else would I go? One place is as good as another. At least I get paid on time here."
"You can fight. Why not try a change of profession?"
Ashlin finally straightened from her work to meet her gaze in the mirror. "Why, are you offering?" she asked sharply. "Because it's easier said than done. A rich girl like you wouldn't understand that."
Claira set the brush aside and set about braiding her hair. "Yes, I'm offering."
The girl didn't say anything at first, though she looked slightly taken aback. Claira finished her braid and tossed it over her shoulder, deciding against anything more with another glance at the window. If this was the break in the weather she'd been hoping for, simple would be better. She went to push the shutters open and glanced outside. "Well? I can easily double whatever pay you get here, and I won't ask you to dance on tables for my entertainment." She lifted an eyebrow and squinted to look at the waitress through the stream of sunlight warming her face. "Unless of course you'd rather."
Ashlin snorted indelicately and gave the linens an unnecessary tug. "Let me think about it."
"Fair enough."
The other woman gave a curt nod and excused herself, leaving Claira alone to dress and eat her breakfast. She didn't have time to wonder what Ashlin would decide; arrangements had to be made for her departure, and those took the better part of the morning, leaving Claira to a late lunch and an even later dinner to be had after tromping across Berri in search of provisions at reasonable prices. She purchased enough for two and then some, on the principle that it was better to be prepared than sorry.
Ashlin came in again with her evening meal. "Offer still open?" she asked. Claira nodded. "Then I'm in. When do we leave?"
Claira permitted herself a smile of satisfaction. "Tomorrow morning after sunrise. Do you have adequate armor and equipment?"
"Yes and yes - but no horse. I've enough money to purchase one, but we won't find any here. It'll have to wait until we hit the foothills."
"We'll work that out tomorrow." Claira rubbed her temples and glanced at the candle. It had passed her mark. "Go eat and get some rest. We'll have to be up early."
Ashlin nodded curtly and turned to leave, pausing to flash a tentative smile over her shoulder before she slipped out the door. Her footsteps faded after the first flight of stairs, and Claira turned to her dinner.
That went well. If they found themselves compatible, she thought she wouldn't mind the company on her travels after all.
.......................................
This was supposed to be short.
I didn't give much of a description for Claira. It's something I thought about, but describing viewpoint characters always seems kind of silly to me - unless he or she is incredibly vain, they aren't going to interrupt their day with a contemplation of their own looks. *shrug* I tried to imply it with the song, which is part of the reason I chose it - it would be like Ashlin to sing something inspired by the only other woman in the room, just to tease her a little. (It's also just like Ashlin to pick something totally irrelevant to the time, place, and climate to sing.)
Claira is half-Japanese according to my original concept, and dresses mostly in dark, somber colors. Her hair is, of course, very dark brown, as are her eyes. Ashlin is almost pixie-like and otherworldly, because of course she is - she's one of the lesser valkyries.
Amy and I talked about this bit of story a lot, but didn't actually write it for IoM because it's history. By the time the IF starts, they've been traveling together for two years and have become friends.
The original plan involved a full scale bar fight, but I... was lazy. Sorry. :P
To make this a better story, I'd have to write out all of those dialogue scenes, and maybe do a few more things. Huh. I guess I could.