“Shouldn’t you be wearing gauntlets?”

Vance wasn’t exactly in a position to be offering help as he continued to shine the breastplate in his lap. His hands considerably dirtier than his current quarry, his time as assistant to the castle blacksmith didn’t afford much in terms of standing. And it afforded him even less in terms of intelligent suggestions. His comment, mostly muttered, must have gone unnoticed for the other occupant in the room had barely moved in their short time together. She sat a good distance away on the only bench, cloaked in chainmail and leather. Hands splayed next to her in a sort of gentle lean. One you’d expect of someone sitting in a field of flowers or a quiet meadow, not a forge. She looked carefree in the firelight, seemingly oblivious to the coming ventures.

Vance kept his comment quiet, because in all honesty, he was deathly afraid of her. With his boss sick, Vance had been thrust into the greatest responsibility of his life, cleaning and preparing the armor of one Darya Treefell. Known to the commonfolk as Darya the Red, she had made quite the name for herself in the towns surrounding (Redacted). Chasing off bandits, felling large beasts, and winning quite a bit of money in the local tournaments. Darya the Red was a local celebrity, named for the long, straight crimson hair that often snuck out of her helmet during battle. The true origin of the name stemmed from elsewhere though. On the battlefield she was reckless, vicious, unyielding and often exited battled covered in her own (and countless others’) blood. A true swordsman would refer to her as unpolished, un-tempered. A lack of discipline and regard for self-preservation hallmarked her unparalleled abilities in combat. Darya liked to play with her quarry, a huntress enjoying the slow, and meticulous dissection of an opponent. Some say she would allow opponents openings, to tantalize them into believing they were gaining the upper hand. She minded no cut, no slash, no piercing of her skin or armor. She welcomed it. As if the blood being freed from her body was a rite of passage, a blood pact between her and the rest of her foes. Darya would always sacrifice a piece of herself if it meant striking the final blow, blood for blood.

She was covered in scars, at least that’s what the stories say. The rumors, the whispers, the things tossed about in a bar.

Vance had of course heard the rumors of the fury, and fighting prowess of Darya, and had slowly realized that what he was cleaning off of her breastplate was not just mud, and dust. How many tiny, insignificant memories had he just washed away with his cloth and bucket of water? How many individuals who thought they would be the one to slay a local hero would now not even remain on her armor? It made him queasy, Vance had seen blood only a couple times in his life. He scraped his knee pretty badly once, saw a man get thrown from a tavern with a busted face, but did not relish in the red liquid that settled softly below skin. He gently closed his eyes and continued his work, best not to anger someone like her. With haste in his hands he scrubbed, and scrubbed at the armor, making sure to remove all the filth that he could see.

“Vance, you said your name was?”

Darya spoke softly, her tone upbeat, almost unbecoming of the warrior the stories spoke about. Her voice fluttered over the crackling forge, and startled Vance to the point where he kicked over his bucket. With water coursing across the dirty floor, she chuckled as the young boy tried his best to not only stop the water, but also preserve the cleaning work he had done on her armor.

“Y-yes, ma’am,” he stuttered. Now she wasn’t exactly a knight, women were forbade such an honor in (Redacted), but she certainly was the most famous person to ever speak to Vance. His entire body quaked as he righted himself, breastplate in hand, and turned toward the figure on the bench. She hadn’t moved at all, still lounging, seemingly uninterested in the conversation she had started.

“Why do you think I should be wearing gauntlets?”

Her voice calm, carefree, with no notes of any guile or malice. An honest question.

“I, I, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t speak,” he could barely put together the words to respond. His nervousness, his anxiousness, bubbling to the surface. Vance tried his best to steady himself, but his body would not cooperate. He didn’t know if he should continue to speak, as her back still faced him. Seconds ticked by like hours as silence gripped the room.

“I, f-f-finished cleaning your armor.” Vance stumbled through his words like a drunk. He could not risk upsetting Darya the Red. She was a warrior, a local legend, someone he heard stories from his Dad about. She wouldn’t kill me, would she? Vance quickly flung the thought from his head, he wasn’t worth the scrape on her blade.

“I will not ask again.” She was being purposefully scary, but he didn’t know that. He’s just a boy, acting as all boys do in front of a woman. Nervous, but not nervous enough to stay quiet, not nervous enough to keep his opinions to himself Darya thought to herself.

“Just the man you’re fighting today, in the tournament, he’s twice your size.” Vance managed to finally voice his concern, hoping not to incur the wrath of Darya. This is it, you idiot. Today you die because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. This is all Garrus’ fault anyway, if he hadn’t spent all last night drinking and…

“I’ve fought men bigger than him before, lad.” Her voice pierced his thoughts like an arrow.

“But, but you haven’t fought Harlok before, he’s never lost a tournament. He even killed his last opponent, and the King had to pardon him.” Words flowed from his mouth at rapid speed, almost excitedly. The last bit was a rumor Vance had heard, but he heard it enough outside of taverns that he was sure it was true.

“I don’t lose either. Not in tournaments, and not in the field. And if you’ve heard the stories about me, you know that I don’t wear anything on my hands.” Darya felt silly speaking to this boy, especially about matters of battle, and tournaments. He couldn’t be more than nine years old.

“I, I know, but Harlok is different. I swears. I heard that he’s cut swords in two with his great axe. That he could cut trees down in one swing!” Vance loved the fighting stories; they were always the most exciting ones as he didn’t care for scary stories. His Dad, smelling of ale, would always come home with more to tell, even when Mom would yell at him for it.

“And how will gauntlets help, if he cuts through my sword? Hmm? Surely his axe prowess allows him to cut through all sorts of things.”

Vance didn’t know how to respond to that. He placed the breastplate at his feet, bewildered and seemed to ponder for a moment. He started to speak just as the door swung open. A grizzled soldier, one of the local guards on retainer, stepped into the room.

“You’re up, Darya.”