The faint rustle of the sheets brought her out of her reverie. Before she could fall back to her thoughts, small noises sounded. At first she thought them whimpers. Did Ghali suffer from night terrors? Vaguely intrigued, she turned away from the window, looking over her shoulder at his shrouded form. Dim though the room was at this time of night, she could just make out the smile upon his face. Dream he did but, she suspected, it was quite the opposite of a nightmare. With a roll of her eyes, she turned back to the window and the starry sky without.
She had been told to pack lightly. It was a "mission" after all and not a pleasure trip. So, she had taken leave of her home for the second time with naught but some healers supplies, a heavy purse and four dresses. Standing on the docks of Pelargir, she had felt lighter somehow, as if some of the weight had been lifted from her slender shoulders. That was, at least, until she had been introduced to her escort; an older man with more grey than black in his thick hair and armour that fit just a little too snugly around his midriff. He was going to be a problem. She could see it from the stern glint in his steely blue eyes, the craggy battle-scared features and the slight frown that looked to have been permanently etched onto his face. He was a career soldier sent out on what should be a milk run for the purpose of making him feel useful past his prime. He wouldn't receive many more missions, escort or otherwise, and he knew it thus he would take his duty in this one all the more seriously. Outrunning him, once they got back to dry land, would likely be little issue but she suspected that he would be relentless in his search for her, driven beyond reason to return her home as his orders dictated. Her spirits, which had hardly been raised to begin with, plummeted.
The sailors had been displeased to learn that they had a passenger, but pleased when they realised it was a healer. They had then been quite upset upon finding out that she was a girl, but happy enough to to be told of their high wages for such an easy trip, so it all evened out in the end. Naturally, she was treated not to the quiet, contemplative journey during which she could plan a daring escape from her escort, but instead a rather more annoying and busy one during which she diagnosed and treated several cases of scurvy, a handful of men with gout and an uncomfortable empty eye socket in the first three days alone. It was the fourth day upon which everything had changed.
Already, she had turned away three separate sailors who had thought it would be amusing to ask her to take a look at the "suspicious lump" between their legs. Mildly vexed, she had gone out onto the deck. Salty, damp and bracing, she had breathed deeply of the fresh air, her eyes closed and hands firmly gripping the wooden railing. She saw nothing, but did hear the shout from the crows nest.
"Sails on the horizon!"
The sailors all began rushing to and fro, battening this, securing that and readying the other whilst she was firmly marched back to her cabin and told in no uncertain terms to remain within until informed otherwise. The door slammed shut in her face but not before she saw the grim cast to her escort's face and the way he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. The cannons fired, several volleys both from and against the ship, bangs so loud and thuds so bone shaking that she would have covered her ears and whimpered had she been made of softer stuff. Instead, she sat in silence, using the distraction outside to plot her eventual escape, should she survive. She tuned out the sounds of the clashing blade and the pained cries for she knew not how long. Her attention was only brought back to the present when the door suddenly crashed open.
There, standing in the splintered doorway, stood a tall and unkempt man. Black of beard, blue of eye and tanned of skin, his clothing marked him as a Corsair. The way in which he licked his lips, leering down at her, made her skin crawl. He grabbed a handful of his trousers suggestively, stalking toward her like a wolf after wounded prey. She should have been scared, she should have been begging for mercy or trying to flee, but instead she sighed in resignation. It would go easier for her if she just submitted, wouldn't it? It would hurt less if she put up no fight. Besides, it would be good practise for her nights with Lord Boring should her escape fail; she would have a better idea of how to choke back her disgust without vomiting. Perhaps she might even be considered spoiled goods and the betrothal would be canceled.
But in that moment, when he came so close that she could see nothing but his half-bared chest, smell nothing but rotten teeth and stale rum from his breath, when she had nowhere left to run, her dress rudely torn from her dainty frame, she felt something rise from the pit of her stomach. Something raw, something powerful, something angry. All of her life she had been told what to do and how to do it. What she hadn't been told had simply been expected of her. She had been given no choices of her own, no chance to decide her own fate, her own future, what she liked, disliked or even wanted for herself. And why? Because she was the daughter of a noble? Because she was a girl? And now, here on a damned ship in the middle of the damned sea, some wretched unwashed, lice ridden misanthrope dared to try the same?
Before she knew what she was doing, her hand had felt around upon the sideboard for her little dagger. Fingers wrapped firmly about the familiar hilt, she looked up into the cold eyes of the man who would spoil her with a defiance born of pride. The blade, small though it may have been, was always kept very sharp and she knew just where to slip it for maximum damage. He barely noticed the parting of his skin, too fixated on his pretty little prize, but he certainly felt it when she twisted the weapon within him. He roared in pain, pulling sharply back. His hand rose, catching her a hard slap across the face and though she fell, she was quickly back to her feet, standing over him as the light went from his eyes.
Only then did she look beyond to the chaos outside. Resentment boiled within her, seething anger turning into an incandescent rage for all that she had been subjected to over the years, all that she had silently endured. There was no room for thought inside her usually cool mind, no time for consideration. Her body moved, bending to retrieve the weapon of the fallen man, she stepped out into the afternoon sunlight with naught but her shift for protection and a bastard sword gripped tightly in both of her hands.
Lacking any training, formal or otherwise, she waded into the fray with naught but two decades of pent up frustrations to guide her. What sort of fucking moron carries a bastard sword for sea battles? the more analytical part of her mind piped up briefly, but was swiftly ignored as she made her first swing.
She missed. Of course she missed. That only drove her on to try again. Without training, finesse, or any knowledge beyond vague theory, she acted on instinct and temper alone. A tiny, dainty little woman, barely dressed, snarling like a crazed wolverine and already covered in someone else's blood, she appeared like a creature possessed. Hacking and slashing at anyone who looked vaguely like a Corsair, she cut several men down before the end, though even she had to admit in hindsight that any kill she had made had been from a mixture of luck and the big strong men refusing to take her seriously.
More than a handful of sailors had died either during the assault or, despite her best efforts, later from their wounds, her escort among them. Still, the sailors had been a lot more respectful to her after that day. More than one had taken it upon themselves to teach her the basics of swordplay when she wasn't busy treating them. By the time she arrived at the long-since-ruined Tharbad, the men felt that bit less guilty about letting her go off on her own.
Some time later, and none the worse for wear, she finally set foot within Bree. Weary and worn, she was nonetheless pleased to find her brother within the only tavern of the town. She had told him all that he needed to know about what had occurred back home, purposely leaving out details of her journey there. He had taken the news well enough, she supposed; a little shocked over the fate of their mother, worried for their other siblings but hardly concerned about his own exile. He had met a long lost love whilst here and planned to do all in his power to woo her. Gilsel would be alright, wouldn't she? She was clearly able to take care of herself...
So, for the first time in her short life, Gilsel Arnenoth of Lossarnach was completely alone, without direction, without demands placed upon her or a path set clearly before her feet but having learned two very valuable lessons along the way: a quick mind and aptitude for learning is no replacement for years of training muscle memory and losing her temper was bad idea.
