A sharp, driving rain rattled against the horn window panes of the small, thatched tavern as an old man stretched in front of the fire. He scratched his chin, smoothing his beard, and looked at the children gathered in front of him on the rushes that covered the floor. He reckoned he was eighty summers by then, but it was never a sure measurement. He knew he had lived longer than his father who only lived sixty odd summers and he was, as far as he could tell, the oldest man for a day’s walk in any direction. He was so old that he could remember his father’s father reminiscing about the days before the orcs ran over the valleys, when the Highlands were free and its fighting men were serving in the royal armies of every court on Revaliir. Those days were long gone, he thought bitterly, and looked to the corner of the tap room where four or five orc riders were arguing with the taverner about their payment. Apparently having a sword was a fair substitute for actually compensating a man for his time and goods, according to the orc officer. Shaking his head, the old man leaned down toward the children and smiled.

“So, you want to hear a story, wee ones? About the war?” The old man spoke in a harsh whisper, loud enough for the children to hear and hang on every word but softly enough to avoid the attention of the patrol in the corner. One of the little boys with a head full of red curls nodded vigorously and his friends all joined him. “Well, little ones, I will tell you about something very special, about the men in the hills that are still keeping the orcs from our doors. Do you want to hear about that?” As the children nodded eager and scooted closer to the man, he took a deep breath and began to tell the story of the Brotherhood of the Shield of Deantoir.

“We never expected the orcs to come together as they did, you see. For as long as we could remember, they were always as we were, clans that warred with each other, never strong but never weak. But about a hundred years ago, a great leader rose among the orcs and, through powerful victories and bribes enough to fill this valley with silver, forged the clans into a single group, forgetting old hatred and joining together to sweep the Highlands. They rode swiftly on their dire mounts and before we even knew there was a war, most of our frontier had been captured. The Highlanders retreated into the mountains, driving our herds and flocks before us and it looked like we would cease to be.

“We were in disarray and even then, the clans were blaming each other for losing the frontier and not striking back. When the orcs began to pick their way into the far valleys, the clans knew that they would need to stand, but they could not select a leader to rally them. Then he came.” The young boy’s eyes lit up. He had heard the story a thousand times but he loved it every time he did. “Ruari, son of Donall, the first son of the chief of one of the largest and most powerful clans arrived in the camp that night, but he had changed. Ruari had never been one for religion, especially not the old ways. He preferred to ignore the Maker until that night. While he slept, he had a dream, a dream that spoke of the Highlands surviving, which showed him the way to do it. While the chiefs, including his father, were bickering around the council fire, Ruari stepped into the council circle. He unbuckled the rich brooch that held his cloak and let it drop to the ground, followed by the silver and gold he wore. He spoke to the council, renouncing his clan and all riches, keeping only his armor and sword.

“He told the council that he had seen their salvation and it would be a way of austerity, of bands of men sworn to the Maker before all others who would be the shield of the Highlands. The council tried to shout him down, but he spoke louder, his voice pure and clear, calling on any man with a horse and a sword to join him, to renounce clan and kin, wealth and family, and serve the Maker and the Highlands alone. Forty men joined him that day, sons of chiefs and lords, common men of the valleys, every class of men, and they swore their oaths to him. They swore to forgo the pleasures of life, their families, and wealth and serve their people. They would not marry and would live together as brothers and would be the first men onto the field of battle and last off it and they would never retreat in the face of the enemy.

The chiefs were stunned, seeing men throwing off their clans and wealth so easily, but they came to their senses. Donall, Ruari’s father, spoke first and accepted the brotherhood and gave them control of the fortress where the clans were camped. The Highlanders built their campfires higher and retreated farther into the mountains, leaving the forty sword brothers to defend the fortress and hold back the orcs.”

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Madoc glanced to his right and to his left and sighed heavily through his nose. Too few men. It was a risk, but that was no surprise. The Shieldbrothers, as the orcs called them in the trade tongue, were stretched thin, guarding fortresses and raiding into the Orc lands for captives and plunder to deter the hordes from pouring into the upland valleys. His horse shifted under him and snickered, pulling at the reins. He had bought a Bohari mount in Yovaesh’s market, trained from birth to carry a knight in battle, just as he had trained from his youth to be a warrior. “Shh,” he whispered to the horse. “Just a few moments more, boy.” He pulled his cloak tighter around him to offer some protection from the nearly torrential summer rain.

The rest of the brothers with him were cinching their shields tighter on their arms and half drawing their swords to make sure they would be ready close at hand. There were only ten men-at-arms with him, but Madoc felt confident. These were men he had known since he was twelve years old and entered one of the fortresses of the Order to serve as a brother knight. Each was armored head to toe, mounted on a well-trained horse, and ready to strike.

At the far end of the valley, just three hundred yards away, a caravan or orc raiders were preparing to camp for the night. They felt confident, so far inside their own lands, that they did not place sentries around the camp, preferring to throw dice to decide the ownership for the Highland slaves they had captured the day before. They did not know that a detachment of the Brothers from one of the only frontier forts that held had followed their trail, keeping just out of view as they tracked the band back to within a day’s march of the slave markets near the Tenebrim Dungeon. Instead, they sheltered in their tents, drinking and gambling the fates of the slaves on a single throw of the dice as their campfire sputtered and flared in the storm.

The senior brother, a grizzled old campaigner named Odo, trotted out ahead of the line and drew his sword. He brought the cross guard to his lips and kissed the shield incised in the metal. The brothers did the same, praying fervently that the Maker was with them and they would survive the night. Odo, his prayers complete, returned the blade to its scabbard and pulled his lance up from the turf. The horses, sensing the excitement to come, were pawing at the wet turf and Odo stood up in his stirrups and raised his voice in a shout. “For the Maker and at them, Brothers!” The knights, echoing his words, raked back their spurs and burst through the underbrush, driving at the Orcs.

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The old man shifted in his seat, pausing long enough to take a sip of his mead. Smacking his lips, he pushed the tankard away and continued his story. “The next day the Orcs advanced, slowly, fearing at the whole Highland host had remained. The ruse had worked and the main body escaped in the night, but the Orcs did not know. As they inched their way up on the valley, wary of an ambush, the newly formed Brotherhood prepared for battle. The Brothers helped each other into their armor, sharpened their swords, and saddled their horses. Ten would remain in the fortress, garrison enough to hold the walls. The rest would ride as soon as the Orcs were within bowshot.

“As they advanced up the valley, nearly to the fortress, the Orcs grew in confidence, abandoning their careful formation and giving over to laxity and ill-discipline. Bands began to search the abandoned tents and shelters for plunder while others stopped, tired from a night stood to arms and the march to the fortress. It was then, as the Orcs were at their weakest, that Ruari struck.

“The gates of the fortress swung open and thirty horsemen, heavily armored and mounted on the best warhorses from the clans, galloped out in a wedge, speeding like an arrow for the Grad Orc’s retinue. The Orcs were taken by surprise and by the time the alarm was sounded, the Highland knights had carved a bloody rent in the army, stabbing and hacking their way to their most hated enemy. Shocked at the ferocity of the charge, many of the farther orc troops began to retreat, streaming back down the valley in a panic.

“Seeing his army disintegrate, the Grand Orc turned his mount and rallied his household troops to counter-charge against the Brothers. The wolves they rode howled and snapped and the Orcs roared in defiance as they charged but the Maker was with the Brothers that day. One of them, a tanner’s son, hurled his lance like a spear as the lines closed and the heavy shaft rammed into the turf just ahead of the Grand Orc’s path. The wolf, unable to change its path, stumbled over the shaft and flung its rider to the ground. Before he could recover, Ruari buried his lance in the Orc’s chest, shattering his ribs and piercing his heart. When their leader fell, the Orcs lost heart and turned to flee as well and the Brothers chased them until their mounts were blown and they fell back to the fortress. The death of the Great Orc threw the coalition into chaos and bought enough time for the clans to settled in their mountain strongholds, to survive. The Brotherhood grew, taking on a proper shape as men flocked to the standard. Now, these brave knights and warriors hold the forts along the frontier, living up to their name as the shield of the Highlands. Even now, somewhere, some of them may be striking back against the Orcish power, and Maker pray they win."

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The hooves of the warhorses hammered on the packed earth of the valley and one of the Orcs stuck his head out of the tent, peering through the rain for the source of the commotion. He was still looking incredulously at the tree line when a lance took him in the chest. The Brothers rode down the tents with uncontrolled savagery, thrusting with their lances until they left them in an Orcish corpse an turned to their blades. A lightning bolt illuminated the sky for an instant and the slaves, cowering in their locked wagons, saw a scene from a nightmare. Mailed men, hacking and stabbing, had turned the camp into a charnel house, leaving no Orc alive. Some men dismounted, hacking the heads off the corpses and stripping the dead while others came for the prisoners.

Madoc, his cloak spattered with Orcish blood, led his horse to the slave wagon and battered the lock off the cage with his axe. “You are free, brothers,” he said over the sound of the rain. “Take what provisions you can and make your way north. There is a tower the Brothers hold three hours from the river if you are moving fast. They know you will be coming. Now move! The Orcs will not be alerted til morning but when they find this, they will ride for revenge.” Gratefully shouting their praise of the knights and the Maker, the prisoners grabbed food from their dead captors and fled into the night. Odo rode over to Madoc, three Orc heads, still dripping with blood, tied to his saddle.

Take Domnall and Cedric and go to Cavan Town, to the Wheatshaft Inn. The taverner said he had information about the Orcs when we rode through but I did not have time to question him fully. When you have the intelligence, return to the fort.” He wheeled his horse away, shouting the same instructions to the two other brothers and soon the three were on the high road to Cavan. They rode in silence, tired from the night’s exertions and the days spent tracking the Orcs, each man thinking of a warm meal and a pot of ale at the Wheatshaft. The ride was barely an hour but by the time they arrived, soaked and chilled to the bone, Madoc was ready to collapse. They left their mounts with a young boy, the son of the taverner, and pushed open the door to the taproom.

The heavy oak door squeaked on its hinges and as the three men, spattered, bloody, and garbed in the cloaks of the Brotherhood entered, the Orc patrol suddenly forgot its quarrel with the taverner and grabbed their swords and axes. Madoc groaned as he scanned the confined tavern, seeing an old man and a handful of children near the hearth. “Grandfather, protect the little ones,” he growled in the Highland tongue, then dragged his sword out of its sheath as his brothers did the same. “Come die on our blades, greenskins,” Cedric taunted, showing the blood-stained blade of his sword to the enraged Orcs. “Die like your brothers in the valley this night!”

With a shout, the Orcs clumsily tried to close the distance in a single rush, blades held high. The old man, grinning to himself, had other plans, and stood quickly. He kicked one of the tavern’s long benches into their path. Two of the Orcs staggered and tripped over the bench, arms and legs flailing and Madoc’s sword flashed down. The heavy steel blade slammed into the Orc’s throat, severing the arteries and sending a jet of black blood to stain the whitewashed walls. Domnall dispatched the other, cleaving the Orc’s skull in half with his battle axe. The other three, enraged but cautious, took a step back, circling the enclosed space to try and take the Brothers from the flank. “Backs together,” Cedric whispered, and the Brothers moved so they stood like a triangle of leather and steel in the center of the taproom, crouching behind their shields and waiting for the attack.

Approximately three quarters of the way into the building, a woman sat perched upon a wooden stood, her body and attention turned in the general direction of another tavern patron.  Her hair fell in ebony waves down her back, blending into the black leather and lace of the attire she wore.  Her garb appeared slightly out of place in the establishment, though no one seemed to notice or care.  The man she was in deep conversation with seemed wholly fixated on her.  From time to time his eyes drifted downwards from her face towards her bosom, before finding their way back up to meet her gaze.  He seemed to think that she took no notice of this.  The truth was she did notice, but she chose to use his tactless act to her advantage, leaning a bit further forward on her stool to give him a better view.  

A bit of a disturbance broke out on the opposite end of the bar, and it was enough to draw Dalanesca's attention away from her prey.  Seeing the group of orcs hassling the proprietor was more of an annoyance than anything to her, and she quickly turned her attention back towards the patron next to her.  He seemed a bit concerned, but the delicate touch of her fingers on his cheek to draw his attention back to her remedied that rather quickly.  She playfully batted her lashes at him, quietly speaking one innuendo after another, and it seemed that she was closer and closer to drawing him in for good.  Her modus operandi was rather simple - get them liquored up and show them just how wanton she was, then drag them back to Porta Inferni for a rather good time - at least, it was good for her.  They usually ended up in the second circle of Inferos - but this man was not to meet that fate tonight.

Just as she was ready to suggest the two leave, she heard the draw of steel from the direction in which the Orcs had been hassling the proprietor.  Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she spun 'round on her stool, turning her back on her earlier conquest as she faced the new disturbance that had arrived.  It seemed that the same Orcs that had disturbed the tavern earlier had found a new target, this being three men, Highlanders most likely (which was shortly confirmed by the speech flowing from one of them).  The men were covered in the blood of slain enemies, which she could only surmise belonged to the brethren of the now seething Orcs.  The Orcs seemed to notice this as well, considerably more so when one of the men drew a sword covered in dark blood.  

The Orcs made the first move, of course - amateur mistake.  Dalanesca kept her gaze fixated on the scene in front of her, finding herself interested in what the outcome would be.  It seemed that the Highlander men were keen to dispatch the Orcs in the tavern, and Dalanesca was rather keen on witnessing whatever went down between the two parties.  She was disappointed that her original plan of entertainment had failed, but this would suffice.  

She was not disappointed in the performance being put on before her.  Within moments, dark, murky blood had splattered the light walls of the tavern, the result of a blade to the throat of one of the Orcs.  She watched the second member of the trio split the skull of an Orc down the middle with an axe.  It seemed the Orcs had become more cautious now, circling together as if in a motion to trap the three men.  Though it seemed apparent the three could handle themselves, she could not miss out on a chance to get in on the action herself.

She dismounted her stool and positioned herself so she was behind the Orcs, making it seem as though she was avoiding the confrontation and moving herself into a safer location.  This, however, was not the case - she merely wanted a piece of the action for herself.  All attention in the tavern was focused on the fight breaking out between the Highlanders and the Orcs, so she was able to go unnoticed as she pulled a long, thin blade from a sheath hidden down her spine, beneath the fabric of the garment she wore.  Her small stature allowed her to easily creep up behind the Orc in the center of the three remaining, and within moments she had pierced the base of the Orc's skull with the slender blade, using her otherworldly strength to drive the weapon upwards where it pierced through his brain.  The Orc made a strangled sound somewhere between a gurgle and a yelp, and fell to his knees.  Dalanesca placed her booted foot on his back pulling down on the blade to withdraw it.  A spurt of dark blood followed, staining the floor in front of her.  

Taking three large strides backwards, she sheathed the thin blade, and crouched into a defensive stance as the two Orcs snarled, whipping around to face her - the three Highlanders momentarily forgotten as a small woman seemed an easy target for the two of them to take on.  As they advanced on her, she reached to either side, her arms crossing in front of her, and drew two shorter blades, one in each hand.  "Come on, then!" she called, a devious grin coming to her face.  

As the Orcs circled the knot of knights at the center of the taproom, Madoc sized them up, trying to see if there was a weak one who could be easily dispatched to swing the odds in the Brothers’ favor. Nothing seemed to jump out at him, so he prepared to fight them in a rush. He knew his Brothers were doing the same mental calculus and reaching the same, grim conclusion. It would be more brute strength that would win the day and the knights crouched behind their shields, muscles tensed, and waited for the attack. Madoc raised his shield so on his eyes were visible over the iron-bound rim and gritted his teeth as one of the Orcs turned and took a stuttering step toward him. Then the Orc gargled and collapsed to its knees then fell flat on the rushes as it jerked spasmodically a moment and then lay still. As the corpse twitched and bled on the ground, Madoc saw a slight woman, dagger in hand, who had apparently dispatched the Orc with a single strike. “Brothers, advance,” he growled and the men swung into line, their shields touching, and closed with the Orcs, who were torn between attacking the hated brethren or killing the impudent woman that dared attack them.

The Brothers gave them no time to choose. As one of them flicked his eyes between the woman and the knights, Madoc lowered his shield a fraction and thrust out with his sword. The blade moved like an extension of his arm, fast and true, and slashed out one of the Orc’s eyes. The creature howled in disbelief and rage, dropping his sword to clutch his hands to his face, as much in shock as pain. Cedric stepped forward and hacked his sword down into the pain-maddened Orc’s neck and dropped him to join his compatriots dying on the tavern floor. The last Orc, seeing that he was outnumbered, screamed in his guttural language and ran at the knights, looking to force his way through their shields and escape. As he came, he swung his heavy mace at Madoc’s shield to batter him to the ground, but Madoc was ready. He took a quick step back, letting the Orc waste his swing, and instead, the lead-weighted steel whistled harmlessly through the air and embedded in a table. As he struggled to pull the head free, Domnall chopped his axe into the Orc’s chest, mangling organs and bone. The Orc made a choking noise and fell onto the ground and the Brothers breathed a sigh of relief.

Madoc cleaned his sword on the cloak of one of the orcs before rifling through his belt and pouches. He found a few coins, probably stolen from a village along the Orc’s patrol, and a few scraps of parchment that he pushed into his tunic to give to Odo. Madoc had never learned to read so he could not tell if the parchment had any value, but he knew it was wiser to let more learned heads make that decision. The taverner came over and whispered hurriedly that they would have to get rid of the corpses themselves, but he would see to the rest. Madoc thanked him and pushed the Orc’s coins into his hand and took a folded piece of parchment in return, parchment he assumed had the intelligence that Odo had requested. “Domnall, Cedric, strip the bodies, take their heads, and tie them to their mounts. Then send the buggers on a run, any direction you like, just away from here, then meet me here. I think we deserve a drink.”

The other knights, with the help of the tavern’s patrons, dragged the corpses out into the yard to dismember them and Madoc sighed, leaning against one of the tables to keep from falling over. “Master Taverner,” he shouted, “A pot of ale for my brothers and I and whatever the woman there in black was drinking.” He took the leather flagon and raised it in her direction. “Please, sister, join me and my brothers in a drink. You did us a great service in killing that Orc and it is the least we can do to thank you. My name is Brother Madoc, and Brothers Cedric and Domnall will be returning shortly. I cannot say that I remember you from around here, so I must ask, what is your name?” He gave her a friendly smile as he sank into his seat, the stress bleeding from him and aches growing all over his battered body. “And what would a stranger, an outlander, be doing in the debated land up here? We swore an oath to be here and these poor unfortunates do not have the coin to escape, but you, you are here willingly? Why?”

As the Highlander men advanced on the remaining Orcs, Dalanesca allowed herself to relax her stance somewhat.  She had been allowed her fun, but this fight belonged to the men, and she was going to let them finish it.  The ending came quickly, with the three men swiftly dispatching their opponents.  When all was said and done, she sheathed her two blades, watching with an amused smirk as one of the men used the cloak of one of the fallen Orcs to clean his sword, followed by an exchange between himself and the owner of the tavern.  

As the Highlander offered her a drink in thanks for her assistance in their fight, she gave him a slight nod.  Briefly, she returned to where she had been before, picking a small stone tumbler up from the bartop and downing the last bit of amber liquid within it.  The man with whom she had been 'conversing' earlier on, who she completely ignored upon her return, made an attempt to grab her arm and hold her back when she walked away again.  She whipped around to face him, and whatever look she gave him was enough to cause him to release her from his grasp.  

She found her way back to the Highlander, and called to the taverner for her drink.  "A whiskey, please," she requested, and pulled out the chair to his left, sitting down rather gently.  She crossed her legs and sat back as the taverner brought over the ale that the man had requested, as well as another tumbler of whiskey.  "Brothers…." she said, under her breath more than anything, a near air of disappointment accompanying it.  She brushed it off quickly, a warm smile gracing her lips.  "I am Dalanesca," she said, not offering her surname.  She had no worry about the attachment of her name to her true being in this area of Revaliir, as the vast majority of the people did not hold polytheistic beliefs like much of the rest of Canelux.  She paused for a moment, pushing her skirt aside to pull a small, black flask from a garter just above her knee.  She poured a bit of a darker liquid into the tumbler in front of her - a bit of the more potent concoction given to her by a very dear friend - before returning it to its place.  Before she spoke again, she took a long drink, setting the cup back down with a clunking sound.

"Your assumption that I am not from this area would be correct," she said.  " I hail from a place… very far south, in Revaliir," she said, a small smile spreading.  "I enjoy travelling," she said, and it was not a lie.  "I am also quite capable, as you witnessed, of taking care of myself," she said, shifting slightly in her seat and pausing for another small sip of her whiskey.  She furrowed her brow for a moment, as though she were thinking of the best way to answer his last question.  Instead, she shifted the subject.  "You introduced yourself as Brother Madoc," she said.  "The title of Brother indicates that you have, as you mentioned, sworn an oath.  Might I ask what Brotherhood it is that you have sworn into?"  She asked out of sincere curiosity.  There were many Brotherhoods throughout the land, yet she was unfamiliar with most of them.  From what she did know, they were mostly young men who swore in to stay out of trouble.  "I've not heard of a Brotherhood that holds the duty of slaying every single Orc they come across," she said, her grin shifting to a more sly expression.

“Definitely not a local with a name like that,” Madoc said and smiled back at her. He was always a little uncomfortable around women, having spent nearly all his life with the Brotherhood. There the only women he met were the sisters who tended to the kitchens and laundry for the knights and they, like the Brothers, had sworn an oath of chastity. He shifted a little in his seat, edging toward the room and away from her, and took a long drink of his blackjack. Dalanseca doctored her drink with something from a flask on her leg and he looked away a moment when she shifted her skirts, then back when her stone tumbler hit the table again. “Your health,” he said, raising his mug to her, and took another drink to cover his discomfort.

While she was talking about hailing from the South, Madoc looked at her clothing a moment, appreciating the fine work and expensive materials, though his own clothing was rough homespun wool, as all the brothers wore. The Brotherhood, living in castles given to them by the chiefs and lords of the Highlands in return for defense, eked out a small income from the rents of the castles’ tenants but with the Orc raids and the dry summer, there was little in the way of funds to even by fodder for the knights’ mounts. A rich patron, he thought, would not be the worst thing for the knights and he turned back toward her with another smile, trying to overcome the urge to run back to the border castle. She had asked about the Order, which left him in far more comfortable territory, so he relaxed a fraction and set down his ale.

“Aye, we all have sworn oaths, me, Cedric, and Domnall, and about three hundred other Brothers. We are known, in the trade tongue, as Shieldbrothers but we call ourselves the Brotherhood of the Shield of Deantoir. Since the Orcs invaded in the last age, Highland men have sworn oaths to the Maker, oaths of poverty, chastity, and discipline and served the Order. We live in castles on the edge of the human settlements and do war with the Orcs to push them out of Highland lands.” He paused and sipped the ale while his brother knights returned and joined him. “These vows keep us free to focus on the fight and our connection to the Maker, you see? No wives or sweethearts makes it a lot easier to throw ourselves between our people and the greenskins like a shield.”

Domnall nodded and took up the story a moment. “And the brothers, we are the only thing the North have got in the way of properly trained, disciplined troops. The household knights and warriors of the clans are fine fighters, brave as lions the lot of them, but bravery ain’t discipline.” Content that he had said his piece, he let Madoc continue, busying himself with ordering some bread and cheese for the journey to the fortress.

“Each brother is armed the same by the Knight Commander when he’s accepted to the Order. We have a coat of mail, a shield, a war sword, a lance, and a war horse with all its tack given to us, but it is desperately expensive. We have no income but the rents from the border forts and those lands are picked bare by the Orcs and the little we receive feeds our men and keeps our walls in good repair. It is what we expected when we took our oaths, but there are times we could use a little silver to buy better arms and armor, I reckon.” Madoc patted the handle of his long, heavy sword. “This belonged to a Brother who died twenty summers before I was born. It’s an ugly lump of steel compared to the fine work from the South, but the steel’s decent enough to split Orc skulls. Though I wouldn’t mind terribly if I was able to buy one of them Egorjan types, or mail out of Adeluna that wasn’t nearly a century old.” Madoc laughed along with the other brothers. It was a typical complaint in the knights’ barracks, the old armor and swords that would have been old when their grandfathers were learning to fight, but what more could knights sword to poverty expect. “So that, Dalanseca, is why we are slaying Orcs. They’re here, their ain’t supposed to be, and we’re the only daft bastards willing to fight without pay or care, for the glory of the Maker and our homes. Basically, we’re a bunch of bleeding lunatics.”

Dalanesca could sense that Madoc seemed a bit uncomfortable, though she was unable to place what it was that was causing him the discomfort.  "And yours as well," she said, lifting her own glass to meet his before taking a sip and setting it down rather gently on the table in front of her.  In the momentary break of their conversation, she could tell that the Highlander was analyzing her somewhat, though which aspect it was, she was unsure of.  

As he began to answer her question, she leaned forward slightly, indicating her interest in the subject.  She grasped her tumbler of whiskey with one hand, taking the occasional sip as he continued telling her a bit more information about himself and his companions that were currently disposing of the dispatched orcs.   It was interesting to her, as the opportunity to learn more about people in his particular status had not presented itself very often.  She fought the urge to furrow her brow at the mention of their oaths of poverty, chastity, and discipline.  None of those things sounded particularly drawing to her, save perhaps the mention of discipline - but that was something she was more keen to dole out than to receive.  The arrival of his companions was enough of a distraction to keep her from showing her distaste, and she offered them each a friendly nod as they joined the table.

The other that began speaking now drew her attention, and she shifted so as to face him as he spoke.  She nodded once more in understanding, turning her attention back to Madoc when the other Highlander had finished his bit.  Her gaze drifted to the hilt of Madoc's sword as he touched it, and she could see the wear that he spoke of.  She was a connoisseur of blades, herself, and it nearly pained her to see such a worn weapon.  Her own blades were kept as pristine as the day they were smithed, created with the finest and most precious yet strong metals possible.

"Makes sense," she said, as he concluded his explanation.  "You're out here protecting those that can't protect themselves, essentially.  It's noble.  A bit stupid, if you ask my blunt opinion, but noble none the less," she said, quirking her mouth into half a smile as she spoke.  "But you're not going to be able to fight off orcs and other things with ancient weaponry and armor forever," she said, her eyes glancing about the three of them.  "I'm a big fan of a well-made blade," she said, and leaned forward in her seat. Reaching around her own shoulders, she drew the thin blade that she had earlier used to kill one of the orcs from its sheath. A small bit of dark blood had begun to dry towards the tip, but she slid it towards Madoc regardless. "Well-made, but absolutely breathtaking to look at," she said, her eyes never leaving the weapon. Its hilt looked to be crafted of something resembling obsidian but stronger, with a deep crimson ruby set into the pommel.  After a few moments, she reached back and grabbed the weapon, sheathing it and taking another drink of her whiskey.

She spoke again after a moment of quiet contemplation.  "Here, at least the three of you can re-arm, then you won't be needing assistance from ladies in taverns," she said, an air of jest to her voice.  She tossed a fairly decent sized pouch onto the table towards Madoc, the sound of silver coins within it clanking together as it landed.  She took a drink of her whiskey and set the cup back down.