1st Winter [Action]

[aryaunderfoot]

[Early this morning, somewhere deep in the woods, there is a wolf howling.

It's a long, mournful howl, and the wolf doesn't seem to want to stop. Occasionally, she'll pause for breath, and then throw her head back again after a moment's rest. This place isn't right. Her cousins aren't here, the smaller ones of her pack. The air is too warm, too full of the smells of spring. And the more she searches, the more she howls, trying to get some sort of answer out of these unfamiliar trees.

Around mid-morning, the crumpled form of a small girl can be found on the path leading from the village to the Battle Dome. She's not hurt, just very much asleep (and scrunching up her face with each wolf howl) and very much covered in grime (and smelling faintly of fish cart). And there's also the fact that she's in a New Feather dress. As the howling reaches a higher pitch, she awakes with a start, freezes, and tries to figure out what this place is. There's a chill in the air, yes, but it isn't winter building up to full strength. It can't be the Summer Islands, and it most definitely isn't Braavos. This place...

...is less concerning than the fact that there is a journal right next to her with "Arya Stark" printed right on it. She gives it an incredulous look for a moment before deciding that this must be a test of some kind. The kindly man must be behind it. With a shake of the head, the girl stands, pushes the journal with a foot until it's tucked out of sight under a nearby bush, and then turns back to the task at hand.

And tries to ignore the mournful howling that is practically tugging her in its direction. That's not something she needs to worry about. That was Arya Stark. Not her. She's nobody.]

[With so many things glaringly wrong with this place, she figures it's time to try scoping it out. The girl very cautiously approaches the village, keeping to the trees for cover until she's sure there aren't any Lannister banners flying anywhere. When there aren't any, it isn't much consolation; the buildings are huge, and the architecture isn't anything she's ever seen before. This place may not be full of lions, but it's not exactly a safe zone, either. She's not even sure what it is.

Eventually, she finds her way into town, going around to see what exactly there is to see here. She doubts she'll spot any familiar faces, but she still makes her way through all the shops in the main square, trying to get some kind of sense of what kind of town this is. The smith shop is familiar, the fashions in the clothing shop completely outlandish, the foods in the indoor marketplace entirely alien.

And she is so, so very lost. As she makes her way through town, the old phrase starts repeating in the back of her mind: Fear cuts deeper than swords. She can do this. She has to do this.

Towards nightfall, after much exploration and poking around, the girl makes her way back to the stables she passed by at some point. The horses are horses. That much is familiar, at least. This much she can understand completely. And the familiar, earthy, horsey smells are something of a comfort when you're trying to wrap your head around what in the world happened to bring you to a place such as this.]

[[ooc: Feel free to run into her at any point!]]

Comments

[aryaunderfoot]

[Richard Sharpe. She repeats that in her head a few times. Even if all of her suspicions prove false, this is a name to remember.

And then something hits her.]

...You don't have to call me "miss."

[Honorifics don't feel right anymore.]

[greenjacketed]

I don't? [ he's caught off-guard, but not thoroughly surprised. many people around here don't care for the little courtesy titles he's had beaten into his hide since he was a boy. even casual strangers get something, usually. but since living in luceti, he's learned to relax those standards back to a level they'd been at when he'd lived in the london slums. ]

Aye. I don't. Only Cat, then. And you can call me only Richard, if you like.

[aryaunderfoot]

[Satisfied nod. No "miss" means no "m'lady" coming up in the future, which is always a good thing. That's the last thing she needs.]

Richard, then. [She eyes the sword at his side.] What are you coming into a smithy for when you already have a weapon? It's not dulled, is it?

[Her father would never have let Ice go dull... if that's even possible with Valyrian steel.]

[greenjacketed]

...She's as sharp as she needs to be. [ he lifts the very long heavy cavalry sabre from its scabbard to show just a minute glint of steel.

but he's fascinated by the girl's keen interest. ] No, Cat. A lad here? He makes something else that I've to pick up. But now I suppose I get to ask what a lass like you is looking for, eh?

[aryaunderfoot]

[A sword. A bull-headed boy blacksmith. The latter isn't that important, though, because he's an idiot, although he'd deserve getting caught up in whatever this place is, too. The sword can be her focus.]

A bravo's blade. A smaller one, though, made for someone my size. [And castle-forged steel. It was a gift.]

They might not have anything like it here.

[greenjacketed]

...For your own self?

[ again, he seems taken aback. but he'd seen children in spain who'd tried to arm themselves against the french.

it always made him sad. ]

You'll only require a tiny little thing, eh? A stiletto'd do.

[aryaunderfoot]

Yes. For me.

[Another frown. Arya doesn't need some plain old stiletto. It's not the same as a bravo's blade, doesn't have the same reach. Granted, it is a closer bet than most other blades.]

A stiletto might work. [Not really, but any weapon is better than none.] But if they have any bravo's blades, that would be better.

[greenjacketed]

...Don't knock the stiletto, lass. [ he reaches out to lift a thin-bladed knife off a rack. ] The infamous partisan leader known as La Aguja used one. And the French forever feared her.

[aryaunderfoot]

[Okay, that got her interest. Even though none of the names tossed out make any sense to her. She inspects the knife closely, but still goes ahead and asks the major question nagging at her.]

Who are the French?

[greenjacketed]

The enemy, Cat. [ no. he thinks better of it: ] My enemy. The enemy of my King, and of my country. And La Aguja's enemy, as well.

[ for different reasons. or, at least, they'd started out as different. but as sharpe had fallen for teresa moreno -- aka la aguja -- he'd come to respect her reasons, too. ]

They ain't here, though. At least, those that are ain't enemies. This place is strange like that.

[aryaunderfoot]

[On the one hand, Arya knows all too well what it is to have enemies. On the other... well, she is one of the people pinned down by the Lannisters as an enemy of the king. She bites her lip absently, silent for a moment before answering.]

Is it just that they stop fighting when they get here? Or are they different somehow?

[Not that she thinks she would cut anyone any slack if they turned up here, but it might be useful to know.]

[greenjacketed]

Nothing as simple as that -- [ he confesses rather ruefully. ] Only the handful of French I've met haven't been from the war, you see? Or they ain't soldiers to begin with. They did nothing to me.

[ it's hard to explain that there are different years involved, as sharpe barely understands that concept. he certainly doesn't understand it well enough to put to words. ]

[aryaunderfoot]

Sometimes the commoners are just as bad as the soldiers, though.

[King's Landing proved that with a horrible amount of certainty, even if nothing else did. But then again, she's seen some true acts of kindness from baseborn folk. The lowest of the low can prove to be great friends.]

Unless they really wanted nothing to do with it.

[greenjacketed]

Cat! Where I'm from, the commoners are the soldiers. But our battlefields ain't in France nor England neither. You don't get to see many civilians who ain't Spanish. And even then, the Spaniards fight. I've already named La Aguja.

[ or portuguese. but if she hadn't known 'french', then she wouldn't know these either. he's accustomed to these gaps in others' knowledge. ]

What I mean is, the reasons to fight back home don't really exist here. Oh, there are other reasons. But they ain't the same ones.

[aryaunderfoot]

[Well, it's true that the commonfolk are usually the ones in the bloodiest parts of the battle, yes. But the ones staying behind, trying to keep life moving forward and doing whatever it takes to feed those left behind, those are the ones to look out for. But Arya lets it drop.]

But what if the people back home just hated you for being who you are? That wouldn't change just because they were here.

[That wouldn't ever change, she wouldn't think.]

[greenjacketed]

[ a dark but momentary look flickers across his face. he's no stranger to being hated. or, at the very least, underestimated. it's no easy feat to be a gutterborn bastard in possession of an army commission. a third of his fellow officers expect him to be a drunkard; the next third envy him his hands-on experience in the ranks; the final third assume he's more beast than man. ]

Then you hide it as best you can. Still -- who could hate a wee thing like you, eh? [ he asks not because he's feeling nosy but because he wants to deflect conversation off of himself. ]

[aryaunderfoot]

[It's not necessarily hate against her that she means... because Arya knows she'd happily try to scratch another name off her list if Ilyn Payne came strolling her way right now.]

Plenty of people. [And a good number of them people she infuriated her very own self, not through blood relations.] And I'm not that small.

[The last bit is more or less to try to throw something in to distract him away from poking at her troubles.]

[greenjacketed]

Small enough to be called small. [ said the rifleman who easily stood at six foot with an inch or two to spare. ]

[aryaunderfoot]

[You tall people, always making fun of her.] That doesn't mean I'm weak.

[greenjacketed]

...Didn't say that, Cat. Just said you was small. The word 'weak' didn't even cross these lips, so help me God.

[aryaunderfoot]

[Only one god in that. Mental note taken. Probably the Lord of Light whose name she still can't pronounce quite right. Still, her injured pride seems to soften a bit as she relaxes.]

Most people say it like they think I can't take care of myself.

[Except in the cases of two certain bastards, who really only did it to irritate her.]

[greenjacketed]

...How old are you, Cat? 'Cause I reckon you can't be much more'n thirteen.

[ and sharpe had been looking after himself well before that age. but he leaves his reasoning vague: ] I've known lads and lasses as young as that who needed very little looking after.

[ though -- he reflects -- they (and he) might have benefited from it all the same. now that he is himself a father and a grown man, he feels a pang for the young ones left alone. he'd felt it while visiting the orphanage in copenhagan, too. ]

[aryaunderfoot]

I'm twelve. [Maybe. So many lifetimes have passed since she was nine, she's not even sure anymore. It's close enough, anyway.]

There were a lot of us looking after ourselves where I came from.

[Although she's not sure Hot Pie counts anymore. Or if he ever did. He wasn't very good at keeping himself alive without help.]

[greenjacketed]

Us, as well. When I was your age and size. Well. Maybe a little bigger, even then. [ this bit of teasing is delivered with a cheeky smirk. ]

Still, this place ain't filled with as many rogues and villains as where I'm from. Or if it is, they've as good as lost their claws. Oh, there are folks to avoid -- but mostly, folk here are too kind for their own good.

Take the smithy lad, eh? I hear he works for favours.

[aryaunderfoot]

[She frowns at the teasing, but doesn't rise to the bait. The rest of that is too useful information to miss.]

What kind of favors? [Thoughtful pause.] And is he any good? At what he makes, I mean.