Umiri sat on the edge of the bed, freshly scrubbed. Bathing regularly with soap–one of many concessions the ranger made to civilization. She combed her hair, slowly, and then sawed off the last couple of inches with a knife.
She was getting lax, here in this town.
The rest went into its usual braids, complete with fresh leather ties and newly scrubbed goblin bones. Anything that pissed off goblins was a genuine pleasure, and it wouldn’t do to let anyone think she wasn’t a fierce fighter.
She’d gone ahead and scrubbed up all of her jewelry while she was at it, and now carefully replaced the earrings in her tattered ears. They’d been ripped out she couldn’t count how many times. It was folly to keep replacing them, and vain, but it also said: I’m so good that I don’t care.
It was important to say that one didn’t care, or it had been. Maybe it still was?
There was much that Umiri had to learn about life out here with all of these soft people.
Another golden ring through her nose and that was it, as far as such things went. She should get more. What good was wealth if it just sat around where no one could see it?
Of course, she’d need to spend some of hers on more weapons. Throwing her axes sat poorly with Umiri, and yet, she’d found the need more than once now. Time to fix that shortfall.
Now if only she could figure out what Anda kept going on about. Something about her and Etraxx?
She liked her fellow half-orc well enough (which was itself a strange new concept), but the bard kept implying implications. Umiri wasn’t so stupid that she missed them. She just didn’t know why.
This wasn’t Urglin, she wasn’t among orcs, and she didn’t need a mate. In fact, she hadn’t needed one while she was there, a truth she’d had to drum into various heads at the business end of her weapons. What time was there for litters of children when there was fighting to be had?
Anda was a weird one.
Not that Etraxx wouldn’t be likely to sire strong children. But again: why? There were things to FIGHT. That’s what Umiri was here for, to fight things, so that she might afford food and a place to sleep and better weapons with which to fight more things. Some day she would die, ideally while fighting things.
If there was more to life, Umiri didn’t know it.
…which made this convalescence thrice as annoying. The idea of rest was a foreign one, so she dragged on her armor, hefted her axes, and struck out to prowl the town.
…which made her tired. Snarling beneath her mask, Umiri went to stare at weapons. At least she understood those.