As Nacha walked through the streets, an uncomfortable feeling began to dawn upon him. Wherever he went people stared, their eyes piercing his form like knives, it was unbearable. Slinking into yet another alleyway he caught a glimpse of his face in a puddle’s reflection; it was withered, ugly, and caked in mud. His clothes were crude furs lashed with hide and bone, the people of towns and cities did not share this fashion, why should he? Perhaps the people wouldn’t stare as mcuh if he looked like them.
Then an idea crept into his head… he would dress like these folk, study them, become them. He would only be worthy of worship if the people valued him, rather than stare with equal mixtures of fear and disgust. First, he would need clothes, then something to do… something to earn renown or keep (as he had no money of his own). He resumed his slinking, this time with purpose, he would search for any tailor’s shops (preferably ones with entrances at the back, so he could enter unseen).
Nacha spies an opening and manages to slip through unseen. After spending the better part of an hour he finds a pair of breeches, a plain ■■■■■, some boots, and a long leather belt with a spider brooch (He was particularly proud of this). After a quick change he cast away his hermit garb (barring his knife’s sheath) and retraced his steps till he was out in the streets again.
Nacha doesn’t change his pace, nor does he make eye contact, he simply walks towards an inn, picking up some change he found on the floor (most likely left by some drunkard).
Sean sighs, frustrated. “Alright, Louisa.” He says, getting up and looking her dead in the eyes. “Make your choice. You can either run from her, and from here, and live as a fugitive, or you can help us fight, and make a place where you will be safe from her. I’m tired of your saying you won’t help, yet still refusing to leave. I suggest you make up your mind.”
The shopkeeper follows Nacha out a ways. “Hey!” He calls.
Nacha continues to ignore the shopkeeper, and heads inside the inn. He strides up to the bar produces the coins and asks “What can I get to drink for this?”
The barkeep goes to get a medium sized glass, while the store owner catches up and taps Nacha on the shoulder. “Excuse-moi.” He says, obvious disdain in his voice.
After hearing Jacques’ report on what had happened so far, the Mademoiselle was silent. She turned around. “Vous êtes relevée de votre devoir.” She says. “Vous pouvez continuer à former de nouveaux conscrits demain. Une fois la semaine terminée, vous pouvez retourner sur les lignes de front.” She turns back to face Jacques. “Dites au général d’envoyer un commandant plus compétent que vous pour prendre votre place. Je vais réparer vos erreurs d’ici là.”
Jacques was shocked to near death, and stunned silent. After a few seconds, he stutters out a “Oui, Mademoiselle.” Before leaving the room as soon as he could, scared of what would become of him.
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, now if you’ll excuse me…” he turns his attentions to The barkeep to retrieve his drink, before turning back to The Shopkeep “… I am going to finish my drink and find then someplace that in the streets that is not too cold for me. It’s been a rough few weeks; I have been assailed by raiders, my land seized, and when I went to reclaim it… was told I needed I couldn’t as I hadn’t booked an appointment.” he drains the glass in a few swigs, waves to The barkeep and attempts to leave.
“No you are mistaken, I’ve just entered this tavern. However, I will not tolerate a slight upon my name so you leave me no choice.” Nacha stands up straight stares directly into The Shopkeeper’s eyes and bellows “I challenge you to a duel!” and appears to mime removing a glove and throwing it at the Shopkeeper’s feet.
“I have neither, But…” Nacha removes the hunting knife from its sheath; and carefully places it on the bar, sharp edge facing himself “”…Will this suffice?" Whilst Nacha may have sounded jovial earlier his tone had hardened, it was as if a completely different person was speaking.