aryaunderfoot | 1st Winter [Action]

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1st Winter [Action]

[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!]]

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[ he's about to walk into the smithy when he notices the girl bee-lining for the same building. drumming up a scratch of courtesy, richard sharpe grabs for the door handle and tugs it open. he gestures for her to head on in ahead of him. ]

After you, lass.

[ the rifleman is tall. he's dressed in green. and he has a wicked sword -- likely taller than arya herself -- on his hip. but he smiles when he invites her past. ]

[The girl is about to just nod and brush on past this stranger without looking, because hey, she has important things to check on here, but then the voice makes her stop dead in her tracks.

And whether she likes it or not, she's entirely Arya again, not Cat of the Canals or anyone else, turning slowly to glance up at this man with an expression like she's seen a ghost. Which, in a way, she has.

Somehow, Eddard Stark has found his way here. And has apparently gotten a haircut. But that isn't important because this isn't possible unless someone is wearing a face and Arya really doesn't want to think about that too much.

She's trying to summon up something to say, but her voice doesn't seem to want to work. Even if it did, she's not sure if she wants to cry out in joy, anger, or horror. As it is, she just backs away from him a step or two.]

...Lass?

[ he rocks back on his boot-heels, holding himself steady against the opened door. ] C'mon, then. Before you catch your death of cold.

[ it isn't all that chilly outside. not really. but he suspects the smithy workers won't enjoy him leaving their entrance open for so long, so he invents a reason to encourage the girl inside. ]

[Before she's entirely conscious of what she's doing, her feet are already moving to obey based on the voice alone. She's halfway through the door when she realizes, and looks up at him again, this time searching his face intently.

It's close. Very close. But he isn't Father.

Arya hadn't realized how much her hopes had risen until she feels them falling back down again. Stupid. She frowns.]

It's not cold enough to die from it.

[This is practically a northern summer.]

So says you -- [ his brows raise. his cantankerousness is cosmetic at best, for as rough-edged as sharpe can be he doesn't take his temper out on youngsters. but he doesn't go around smiling all willy-nilly, either.

but he had to admire the girl's pluck. no, indeed, it wasn't cold enough to die. sharpe has slept tentless on colder nights than this day. ]

But let's not lollygag 'round long enough to learn, aye?

[She's tempted to argue just for the sake of arguing with this man who dares to look and sound so much like Eddard Stark, but she really should just go along with it. There is a smithy to investigate here and she can try to figure out who this man is and why he looks and sounds like him.]

Aye. [Beat. Alright, she can't resist it.] It would be a really long wait.

[ he laughs, even if he doesn't quite smile. and once the blighter's gotten inside, he lets the door shut behind him with a clack. ]

An expert on all things about surviving outdoors, are you?

[A shrug. She wouldn't call herself an expert - that's more of a title for an experienced ranger of the Night's Watch - but she knows from experience that she can survive the wild. Not that she means to share all that.]

It's just common sense. It isn't even snowing outside. Besides, everything is thawing out.

[Which it shouldn't be. It's supposed to be turning to winter right now.]

It is, ain't it? [ he leans leftwards just to catch a glimpse out the window. he's looking forward to the thaw; he wants to start up a little farm, if possible. just a scrap of land. a few carrots. maybe a sheep. ]

About time. This winter was a dull one. [ it had also only been his first, in luceti. but how's the girl to know that? ]

[That really is entirely too familiar. Someone who looks and sounds like Father, talking about winter. Just in the opposite direction. She looks past him for a second or two before going back to looking around the smithy.]

Everyone was saying this winter was supposed to be a long one. Worse than most.

[Fishing for a hint. Why isn't it winter?]

Were they? [ the uniformed man wrinkles his nose. ] Don't remember anyone saying so, but I don't care much for the magical books.

[ but then he looks a little closer. one of those new feather frocks, eh? he crosses his arms. ] Got a name, lass? Or should I simply call you Miss Expert on Winters?

[Well, there's one question answered. If it was someone trying to act like her father to lure her into a false sense of security, he wouldn't be asking her name. He'd know.

But that doesn't mean she's about to just say it. This could still be a trap. It seems very much like one. Serious-faced as ever here.]

My name is Cat. What's yours?

[Don't you dare say "Ned."]

Cat. [ he repeats it carefully. and he likes it, too. short. to the point. but now he has to give his own and it begs the question of...how's an army man to introduce himself to a young girl?

major isn't fair; she ain't in the bloody army. so he leaves the rank off and gives just his name: ] Richard Sharpe, Miss Cat.

[ there. she could do with that as she would, he decides. ]

[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.]

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.

[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.]

...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?

[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.

...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.

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.

...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.

[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?

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.

[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.]

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. ]

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