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Date Posted: 04:07:24 12/05/01 Wed
Author: Isobel
Subject: Reflections on a blade of sword
In reply to: Erlic Eastlore 's message, "A short rest" on 19:32:50 12/04/01 Tue

Isobel stared at the disgusting vultures as they tore apart the carcasses of their fellows. She hoped they got their fill and didn't decide to go for the rocs next. She had almost forgotten the stink of the things, when the wind shifted and she was almost physically assaulted by their stench.

Frio was telling everyone that they would rest here for now. Again she looked at the vultures. "Not to be contradictory, but should we not get a little farther from these vultures before we rest? No one seems too injured to fly and..." but Erlic was already making a fire. She did not understand why they were camping with vultures in their midst, but she did not argue further. Instead, she checked her weapons and idly wondered if there wasn't some spell that could make the undead creatures smell better... or at least not smell as good to the vultures.

She sighed and when she turned Erlic had come up to her and asked her to follow him. Puzzled, she did so, declining the offer of his wine. "Gracias, but I think it would make me more thirsty. Alcohol dehydrates..." she bit this off, not wishing to offend since he was drinking it, after all, and most of the men seemed to consume large quantities of it. She hoped it did not affect their reflexes too much.

He proceded to lecture her then. “I didn’t know how badly you were injured, and therefore had no idea in what condition you might be in. As far as you being one of the men, I simply expect from you what I expect from the others, no more, and no less. If I didn’t think you capable, you wouldn’t be here with us.”

She smiled a little sardonically. "Frio, you did not ask me how badly injured I was. You simply grabbed me and took me off the roc. I do not think you would have done that with a man." She sighed. This was constantly a problem. Because she was a woman, even those who claimed to think her quite capable still treated her like some simpering little lady who would cry if she broke a nail (Isobel's own nails were of course kept short). Worse yet, they assumed that she was weaker or less capable of handling pain or discomfort. She was not. She had sustained injuries that were worse than some she had seen cause giants of men to whimper for their mamas, and she had prided herself on doing so with a minimum of fuss. (She selectively forgot that the time a sword went straight through her shoulder to poke out the other side, shattering her shoulderbone, she had screamed loudly for quite a long time, and had even cried. Of course, she had also beheaded the foul man who had done it.)

She sighed again. "But, I do understand your actions and I apologize for my inappropriate annoyance. It must be the pain talking, no?" And she smiled.

She found her dagger in the sand, blade down, hilt sticking up very near one of the fallen vultures. She grinned and picked it up. "Welcome home, chiquita," she told it as she pulled out a cloth and began cleaning the blade before slipping it back into her bandollero.

Erlic seemed to have noticed that her sword was of less than optimal quality, for he asked about it. “I happened to notice the sword you employ,” he remarked. “Do you use it because it is an heirloom of sorts, or because it is the only weapon at your disposal at the moment?”

She pulled the sword from its sheath held it up, blade pointing at the sky, looking at it for a moment as if considering it. "This," she said as her eyes met his across the blade, "is all I have left of my father. I use it in remembrance. It is not the best sword, that is true. But... it was his." She seemed slightly embarrassed at revealing such sentimentality, for she hurried on, "And I have never failed to slay a foe with it!"

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