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T1: The Village of Hommlet (IC)
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<blockquote data-quote="Kobold Stew" data-source="post: 6519629" data-attributes="member: 23484"><p>Meadowlark has been chatting with a local farmer, who is surprised to learn that anyone is as interested in his pigs as he is. She's not, but she is a good listener. She's been back in town not for about five weeks -- long enough for her to doubt the Abbot's insistence that "St Cuthbert will provide the next step of your journey" which, while hopeful, was bleak recompense for the years of training she had endured for His sake away from her family. So she's drinking a pear cider, listening intently. A boy she once had a crush on, with whom she'd sang in the fields and laughed and dreamed, is flirting with the barmaid, and not recognizing her. Has she really changed that much? Certainly, she's become harder. Her posture is exceptionally correct, just as she had been shown by Mistress Soane, but it is not relaxed. She used to be relaxed, she thinks to herself. </p><p></p><p>Meadowlark's longsword is strapped to her side, and her blonde hair, hanging loose below her shoulders, casts shadows that dance across her face. "...Well the next time she gets the fever, Mr Anson, you call me," she insists. </p><p></p><p>Her armour and satchel are stored in the small room she has rented upstairs. Always ready, always bundled by the door. She keeps her room so fastidiously clean, that the owner's daughter (one of the two housekeeping staff in this small inn) has thanked her, since it gives her a few minutes to relax when she should be cleaning Meadowlark's room. When duty calls, she expects to have the time to retrieve them.</p><p></p><p>She sips again at her cider, and looks around the room, settling on the garish redhead who has begun to draw a crowd.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Kobold Stew, post: 6519629, member: 23484"] Meadowlark has been chatting with a local farmer, who is surprised to learn that anyone is as interested in his pigs as he is. She's not, but she is a good listener. She's been back in town not for about five weeks -- long enough for her to doubt the Abbot's insistence that "St Cuthbert will provide the next step of your journey" which, while hopeful, was bleak recompense for the years of training she had endured for His sake away from her family. So she's drinking a pear cider, listening intently. A boy she once had a crush on, with whom she'd sang in the fields and laughed and dreamed, is flirting with the barmaid, and not recognizing her. Has she really changed that much? Certainly, she's become harder. Her posture is exceptionally correct, just as she had been shown by Mistress Soane, but it is not relaxed. She used to be relaxed, she thinks to herself. Meadowlark's longsword is strapped to her side, and her blonde hair, hanging loose below her shoulders, casts shadows that dance across her face. "...Well the next time she gets the fever, Mr Anson, you call me," she insists. Her armour and satchel are stored in the small room she has rented upstairs. Always ready, always bundled by the door. She keeps her room so fastidiously clean, that the owner's daughter (one of the two housekeeping staff in this small inn) has thanked her, since it gives her a few minutes to relax when she should be cleaning Meadowlark's room. When duty calls, she expects to have the time to retrieve them. She sips again at her cider, and looks around the room, settling on the garish redhead who has begun to draw a crowd. [/QUOTE]
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