The boy -- for Buffy passed best as a boy -- was strong. The boy was fast. The boy seemed to be better at anticipating cuts and parries during the few instances they'd allowed Buffy to join in on playful practice sessions. But the boy was, they assumed, young. More importantly, the boy was new. And just a little awkward to be around. So, when her small detatchmnt returned to camp on Limtown's limits, it fell to 'the boy' to tend to the horses.

She wasn't of the Rohirrim, but it was impressive how they barely realized this fact except for when she stumbled her brief way through their language. It wasn't entirely indecipherable -- and for that she likely had the lingering magic or science of Luceti to thank. But she was hardly fluent. She could say enough to get by. If anything, they thought 'the boy' was simply slow. Dim-witted. Perhaps 'the boy' had fallen from a pony's saddle as a child and had never quite recovered. They didn't complain, so long as weight was pulled and work was done. And weight and work were two things Buffy accomplished well.

On this night, she mumbled lowly to their captain that they would require new shoes for the horses. And their captain, passing on the curt -- but not cruel -- tone to the southerner, alerted Sokka to this need.

"Go see Jack, the lad," the captain gruffly suggested to the blacksmith, "and if the two of you can sort out the hooves, then perhaps we'll speak later about the blades."

Helmet in hand, the patrol's commander jabbed a finger at the far side of the camp.