— moment, Faustine found herself sinking to Wren’s level as if they had pulled her down.

The sound of commotion in the tavern, boots thudding on hardwood, rousing calls.
The moment passed.
She let it go, swearing to herself that she wouldn’t let it next time.

If there ever was a next time.

— simply couldn’t lose.

Faustine waited for Miri to leave before her eyes locked on to Wren’s, her throat swelling as she swallowed hard.
“Listen, Wren…I…”
She had never kissed anyone, nor had anyone kissed her. Few ever had the reason, and fewer still were brave enough to try.
But in that —

— she’d ever felt before. The feeling had come as fast and as violently as an avalanche, then settled over her with a comforting weight.

She had never gone into battle carrying anything more than her hammer and the loyalty of her comrades. Now she carried something else, something she —

Faustine felt her blood stir, the throbbing of her heart a hammer in her ears as she shifted from who she is to who she was.
Her grip on Wren’s arm tightened only a little, a snug little plea she imparted to them before letting them go.
This attachment she felt towards Wren—it was unlike anything -

- eye looked him up and down over the frothy rim.
"Some kind of mercenary or somethin'?"

- that she didn't need to wear any for any foolishness that did manage to find her.

The fire-orange of her eyes drifted across the wet stranger, her form twisting on the stool that protested her weight by creaking as she turned to face him.
"Job board?"
Another swig from her tankard as one -

- she had thrown a good-natured barb at the barkeeper or if there was some sort of veiled threat there.
The massive warhammer dangling off her back gave the impression that she brooked no foolishness, and the lack of armor covering her loose white shirt and black trousers gave the impression -

- counter to her.
"I'm still paying you to drink this swill. Isn't it your job to keep your customers happy? Would I be happy if little 'ol me had to lug that whole keg up those narrow-ass stairs? No I wouldn't."
Her voice was deep, almost monotone. It was impossible to tell if -

- the tankard back onto the bar, raising her large hand to signal she wanted another.
"I swear, Faustine. If you drain another one of my kegs this week I'll make you carry a new one up from the cellar," the barkeep grumbled as he refilled her tankard and slid the sloshing froth across the -

- freakishly tall even by Dragonborn standards, and with enough muscle to put an ox to shame.
As she tilted back a large tankard and gulped at least two whole pints in one go, the silver ringlets around her leathery dreadlocks clinked together like tiny bells.
"AAAH!" She quietly roared as -

There was little and less in the way of patrons at this particular tavern, and even fewer who looked like they had particularly loose lips.

Three seats down from the rain-soaked man sat a Dragonborn who looked as out-of-place as a wooden spoon at a lord's table.
She was big, broad-shouldered, -

- unfamiliar woman standing in the small crowd. Drifter? Passerby? Maybe an underling for a local lord come to make a special order? Wherever she had come from, she certainly wasn't from here.

- second, folks. Got a lot'o work back here to catch up on. Misses Flura? Your scythe blade's ready. Mister Jasper? Your hatchet's ready too. I'll be comin' round tomorrow to collect payment."

With that, the Dragonborn disappeared into the back once more, but not before catching the gaze of the -

- flesh of her cheeks and neck. One eye was bruised and almost swollen shut, a fiery orange eye peeking out from beneath.
Even for such a young thing, likely still in her mid-teens, she still towered over every man and woman in the shop. The whole town, for that matter.
"We'll be with ya in a -

- appeared at the shop's counter, almost bursting out of the smoky air in the back.
The young woman huffed, quickly hiding an exhausted grimace as she put on the mask of a smile for the customers.
Black soot covered her callused, bandaged fingers, traces of it marking the white scales and red -

- the area, golden fields ripe with grain.
"Jakobi!" a young voice rang out over the sound of hammers and quenching steel.
"Is her scythe done or is she next in line?!"
A smith's work is never done in wartime or harvest time. Gods be with you if the times coincide.

A young Dragonborn suddenly -

The day had grown long, the lines at the shop even longer.
Two men and two women loitered about around and the smith's open-air kiln, waiting for their orders as a pair of hammers clanked rapidly on scythe blades, butcher's cleavers, and a growing pile of tools.

Harvest time had come to -

— Wren’s bicep. It was a soft gesture, a gentler one than she was used to giving.
“Be careful.”

— of the room and landed in her palm with a slap.
“Ready as I’ll ever be to fight a world-killing dragon, which is to say ‘not what so-godsdamn-ever.’”

Faustine took a step towards the door, but quickly twisted to face Wren once more.
“Hey, listen,” she said, reaching out and gently squeezing —

There was little else to be said.
The time had arrived faster than she had anticipated, but the sudden jolt she felt was not unlike a broken bone being set—unpleasant but ultimately necessary.
With the resounding snap of her fingers, the haft of her hammer flew to her hand from the corner —

A bovine styled fantasy character holding a massive shield and a hammer

"Bastion! Bas, for friends!"

🛡️Firbolg Guardian

🛡️Friendly, forward and optimistic

🛡️ Adventurer for trade

🛡️ By Noize

#FantasyRP • #DnDRP

- as the words “…quench the heated blade in acid” begged for her gaze to return to them.
“Yeah? What is it?”

Quiet reading, quiet prayer, an occasional word or joke between the two, the occasional passing touch, this was the routine they had found themselves in. There was comfort in silence and softness for two lives so wrought with violence.

When Miri arrived, Faustine’s eyes shot up from her book -

- as in, I wanna know what makes you...You. I'm a simple puzzle. Put four pieces together and I'm done. You...You're different."

- played with like a hound's chewtoy, and here she was ready to risk all of that agony again.
Perhaps she'd pay for letting her guard down, or perhaps she had let the right one in.
"I wanna get to know you. All of you."
Realizing how that sounded, Faustine quickly course-corrected.
"I mean, -

- afraid to move.
"If it's enough for you," Faustine began as her gaze softened, "it's enough for me."

Barely more than two days, and Wren had so thoroughly captured her attention Faustine would've suspected a spell or a trick in any other situation.
She'd been swindled, tricked, had her heart -

- Faustine did in that very moment.
Dumbstruck, her tongue refused to work for a moment as if it too was in awe.
She stepped closer to Wren, then closer still.
The distance between them all-but disappeared as Faustine looked down at them, her hands stuck close to her side as if they were -

- the sun filtering through the trees behind them as if goading the pair onward into the tiny valley.
"I'm just–"
When Faustine turned, her eyes were met with Wren crowned by the sun. Its rays sifted through their midnight-blue hair as if the sun wanted to run its fingers through it as badly as -

- say it.
Coming from anyone else, Faustine would likely have been upset by what Wren had said. Coming from them, though, it was not a bitter drink. In fact, it tasted rather sweet.

She heard the soft padding of Wren's feet stop behind her as they reached a clearing, -

Wren's words were the snap of a pine branch in a fire–so warm and welcoming until it startles you. They so easily and simply broke down the pieces and parts of Faustine, shaving away the years of hard calluses and toughened leather she hid herself behind.
She didn't know what to say or how to -