[Lyra Greenleaf]

The inn common room was dark with a low roof, even the very air was muggy with the scent of ale and unwashed bodies. Only the slight woman, little more than a girl, stood out as she walked with her drink through the darkened room. Her figure had grace to it, not the feminine sort of grace usually associated with women but rather the deadly grace of a soldier or an assassin. Mara, for this was her name, looked in disgust at the men she passed, belching and laughing coarsely, many pausing to leer. It was the first time in over a year she had returned to her native village, and apart from her family she realised there was not one who she felt regret for.

“Mara my pretty” a voice interrupted her thoughts. “Are ye not yet married? You could have two or three children by now, had you played your cards right. I’d have you, ye know, for my wife died nigh on three years ago now.”
Mara shuddered and went to continue on her way.
“What say you, Mara?” the man continued.
She paused, to remind herself to be civil.
“I thank you for your offer, Master Miller, if such it was,” she said, with a sugary smile that did not reach her eyes, “but I believe you are a little…” Her eyes ranged over him. Fat? Stupid? What would offend him the least? she wondered, for her family depended on him to mill their corn into bread for a low price. “A little old for me” Mara turned firmly on her way.
“What of my son?” he called again, standing up. “My oldest, Ben. He’s a good lad.”
“Weak” she countered without bothering to turn. “Tied to his Mama’s side until she died. He would last not a week with me”
“You have no leave to be so fussy, Mistress Mara” the man answered angrily. “May yet be you won’t receive a better offer than this one. You come from a poor family and many’s the father who wouldn’t accept a girl who’d been off learning to fight instead of cook and clean.”
”That is a risk I will take” she told the man, still with studied politeness. However one of her brothers or sisters could have told him that her face was showing the signs it normally had shortly before they found themselves flat on their backs with fresh new bruises. “I must warn you” she added in the same tone “should you speak again, I will not be responsible for what I may do”
“There’s my younger boy” the man said, unheeding of the threat. “Ugly as sin, but all you can- Oooof!”
He was cut off by a kick to the area Mara knew would do the most damage. As he doubled over she grabbed his hair and pulled him upright. A knife in her hand was perilously close to his neck.

The inn had gone silent, enjoying the entertainment. Even the barkeep stopped polishing the old broadsword kept behind the bar.
“I warned you, you fat old fool” said Mara quietly. She stood silent for a while, listening to the sound of the man's panicked breathing filling the room. Then with a sigh of disgust she let go, pushing him down onto the floor. She turned to leave.
“Mayhap you’re the fool!” he called, rubbing his neck. “I do not think that I shall be able to mill your father’s corn this year. He’ll have to take it elsewhere.” With a cruel smile he added “Such a pity it would be were they and the brats to starve to death”
Mara ran with the sound of laughter in her ears. She had contemplated slitting his throat, but it would not have helped. All she could hope was that he would forget what she had done.

*********************
Fighting was all Mara had ever wanted to do, but every step of that way she had had to convince someone that she was good enough, simply because she was female. Though she could fight with a knife from the age of seven and a sword from ten her parents would not let her join the parties that frequently raided Rohirrim lands, just a few miles from her home. So at the age of fifteen she ran away. The raiders she met later let her fight, but only after she had killed two of the men who stood against her. Since then she was tolerated rather than accepted, partly through fear of her vicious temper. She had earned a good reputation for her hatred of the Horsemen of Rohan, who she believed had stolen the lands of the Dunlendings. The rewards were shares of the loot from burnt farms and villages, which she sent home. Now, with the bread for the next year looking in jeopardy, she realised that she had to get some more money. And fast.

[ March 20, 2003: Message edited by: Lyra Greenleaf ]