Polymath (𝓒𝓞𝓜𝓟𝓛𝓔𝓣𝓔)

Warrior

"And, Keladore?"

"Yes, sir?"

"One more thing. Along the way, you'll meet an itinerant Blacksmith."

"A blacksmith?"

"Yes. Give him this pouch and tell him to set up at the crossroad I've marked on this map inside and stay there."

"For how long sir?"

"Until he's no longer needed. He'll know."

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Warrior

It was late in the day, and the crowd of independent fighters that had gathered for the hiring event at Cragmoor keep had thinned considerably. There were places to be had still, and some waited nearby, trying not to be humiliated by being in the group that would be chosen only if better did not come along. They turned to look as a big bay gelding cantered into the square and came to a stop. Stares and murmurs erupted through the crowd as the rider dismounted and walked unhurriedly toward the recruiter's table.

The warrior was used to being stared at, and talked about. It wasn't her honey brown hair, or brown eyes with golden flecks. Nor was it her size, although at six feet she was a big woman. It wasn't her face, either, although her features were pleasant enough, under her clan paint.

Well, the clan paint did draw attention, especially taken along with her helm, chain mail, broadsword, shield and the mace and chain hanging from her belt. While it was not unheard of for women to take to mercenary work, even among her female peers she tended to draw looks and remarks. It wasn't because of anything as tangible as her outward appearance.

One of her teachers had called it her 'prowl'—the smooth, graceful glide of a warrior trained to move and stay on her feet. Most fighters had it, to a degree, but in her is was so well developed as to be not only obvious but disconcerting. Men, especially, were not used to a woman who could intimidate by her mere presence. Many refused to admit that such a woman existed, but the wiser ones did not try to press the matter once proven wrong. Those that did soon found that her aura was not an illusion.

The recruiter looked up as she approached. He looked her up and down—an appraisal that was utterly lacking in gender recognition or sexual intent.

"I here for the job," she said simply.

"All right then." The recruiter stood. "Your name?"

"Myrcella," she replied crisply.

"Myrcella. Over there," he said, pointing to the rough circle of torn and matted turf loosely ringed with rope. As she turned and went off toward the ring he looked toward the group of liveried fighters nearby. "Eudo!" He called. "To the ring."

Myrcella stood, apparently at ease, and watched him come. Eudo was a large man, a bit taller than she, wide of shoulder and bulky. He had that peculiar plodding gait that many heavily muscled men had. The gleeful grin on his face told her that he was looking forward to this bit of sparring. Was it simple love of sport, she wondered, or was it her sex that spurred his anticipation? She would soon know.

A scarlet clad referee stepped up and called both fighters to attention. At his word, both took a preparatory stance. Swords were unsheathed and shields taken in hand. There was a murmur of anticipation in the on-looking crowd as he raised the flag, then dropped it.

The moment the flag touched the earth, Myrcella was in motion. She slid to the left, gauging her opponent's capabilities as she watched him press the attack. He was strong and skilled, but he lacked suppleness and therefore speed. He was also, she realized, looking forward to trouncing a female fighter.