her head back down to her hands and closed her eyes.
Leslac frowned. This was not going as he'd expected.
The women -- he'd expected them to be taller, somehow, especially the swordswoman. Cleaner, not so -- shabby. Aristocratic. Silk for the sorceress, and shining steel armor for the swordswoman, not a dull buff homespun robe and a plain leather gambeson. And in his mental image they had always held themselves proudly, challengingly -- shining Warriors of the Light--
Not two tired, dusty, slouching, ordinary women; not women who rubbed their red-rimmed eyes or fought with their hair.
Not women who avoided a confrontation.
He studied them despite his disappointment -- surely, surely there was some sign of the legend they were becoming -- the innkeeper had seen it. He'd been concerned that they could take on Lord Gorley's men and win -- and wreck the inn in the process.
After long moments of study, as the innkeeper came and went with food and drink, Leslac began to smile again. No, these weren't Shining Warriors of the Light -- these women were something even better.
Like angels who could put on human guise, Tarma and Kethry hid their strengths -- obviously to put their targets off-guard. But the signs were there, and the innkeeper had read them before Leslac had even guessed at them. But -- it showed; in the easy way they moved, in the hands that never strayed too far from a hilt, in the fact that they had not put off their weapons. In the way that one of them was always on guard, eyes warily surveying the room between bites. In the signs of wear that only hard usage could put on a weapon.
Undoubtedly they were intending to remain here -- but they didn't want Lord Gorley alerted by staying in the inn.
Leslac mentally congratulated them on their subtlety.
Even as he did so, however, there was a commotion at the inn door -- and red-faced and besotted with drink, Lord Gorley himself staggered through it after colliding with both of the doorposts.
Leslac nearly crowed with glee and pressed himself back into the rough stone of the corner wall. Now he'd have what he'd come so far to witness! There would be no way now for the women to avoid a confrontation!
Tarma was sipping the last of her wine when the drunk stumbled in through the door and tripped over Warrl's tail.
Warrl yelped and sent out a Mindshriek that was comprised of more startlement than pain. But it left Tarma stunned and deafened for a moment -- and when her eyes cleared, the sot was looming over her, enveloping her in a cloud of stale wine fumes.
'Ish zhish yer dog?' The man was beefy, muscle running to fat, nose a red lacework of broken veins that told a tale of far too many nights like this one -- nights spent drunk on his butt before the sun was scarcely below the horizon. His wattled face was flushed with wine and anger, his curly brown hair greasy with sweat.
Tarma sighed. 'Insofar as anyone can claim him, yes, he's mine,' she said placatingly. 'I'm sorry he was in your way. Now why don't you let me buy you a drink by way of apology?'
The innkeeper had inexplicably vanished, but there was a mug or three left in their bottle--
The man would not be placated. 'I don' like yer dog,' he growled, 'an' I don' like yer ugly face!'
He stumbled back a pace or two -- then, before Tarma had a chance to blink, he'd drawn his sword and was swinging at her.
Wildly, of course. She didn't have to move but a hand's breadth to dodge out of his way -- but that only served to anger him further, and he came at her, windmilling his blade fit to cut the air into ribbons.
She rolled off the bench and came up on her toes. He followed so closely on her heels that she had only time to dodge, drop to her shoulder and roll out of his way again, under the shelter of another bench.
As he kicked at her shelter, she could see that Warrl was beneath the table, grinning at her.
