She was dumping forage into rough-made troughs, inviting the mounts to bow to their well-earned meal. Her own meal waited for her by the fire. She -- as on every night before this one -- would be the last to eat. And they -- as always -- would be gallant enough to leave 'Jack' with just enough to fill a belly. No more and no less and everything had its proper place. There was honour, she supposed, in taking just what you needed and nothing more. It was no honour that she was used to but she was slowly learning how to respect it all the same.
She raised her still-helmeted head at the name. Funny how it always sounded achingly familiar, no matter who said it. At first, she'd dared to say it often. At first, she told her horse stories of the people she'd once known. Of pirates and warriors and brave brave souls.
"...Shoes?" She said in her gruffest, most masculine voice. Helpfully, it mostly sounded like an adolescent boy trying desperately to sound older than his young years. It added an authenticity to the whole affair. Just as the ever present helmet smacked of a raw recruit so eager that he never removed his gear.
"Did you--" A pause. Damn, this tongue! These harsh vowels, reminiscent of some Saxon languages. Reminiscent of old spells muttered by Giles on cold nights. "Do you have...shoes?"
A hundred wittier lines rolled through her mind. If you do, you're a shoe-in for our business -- these horses are better shoe'd than we are -- shoe-ly you're the shoe-man -- show me the shoes. But she didn't know how to joke in Rohirric. Her humour had long been pinned up by language barriers and emotional lethargy.
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She raised her still-helmeted head at the name. Funny how it always sounded achingly familiar, no matter who said it. At first, she'd dared to say it often. At first, she told her horse stories of the people she'd once known. Of pirates and warriors and brave brave souls.
"...Shoes?" She said in her gruffest, most masculine voice. Helpfully, it mostly sounded like an adolescent boy trying desperately to sound older than his young years. It added an authenticity to the whole affair. Just as the ever present helmet smacked of a raw recruit so eager that he never removed his gear.
"Did you--" A pause. Damn, this tongue! These harsh vowels, reminiscent of some Saxon languages. Reminiscent of old spells muttered by Giles on cold nights. "Do you have...shoes?"
A hundred wittier lines rolled through her mind. If you do, you're a shoe-in for our business -- these horses are better shoe'd than we are -- shoe-ly you're the shoe-man -- show me the shoes. But she didn't know how to joke in Rohirric. Her humour had long been pinned up by language barriers and emotional lethargy.