Cerce rubbed dirt from her brow with the back of a gloved hand as she strode through the murky streets of Bisso. There were people in the streets, now that the fires had been put out, and the bustle of human commotion gave the whole miserable little place a vibrancy that Cerce found quite charming in spite of everything that had happened.
From one of the nearby shopfronts, windows shattered and front door kicked in, came a woman in so many layers of rags that it was hard to tell where garment ended and woman began. She thrust a bundle of sweetbreads into Cerce's hands with a grateful muttering. Her accent was so thick that Cerce could only nod and smile, bearing her fangs in the politest way she was able.
Carnaby ambled up at her side, gripping his greatsword in one hand and a bottle he'd been handed by another villager in the other.
"She said 'thanks'" he grunted, taking a pull from the bottle and getting cheap wine in his bushy beard.
"I got the gist of it, yeah," Cerce said, pulling apart one of the little loaves and popping a mouthful onto her tongue. With the town inn burned out to a husk and any coffers long made off with, cheap wine and stale bread was about all she expected to get for the long walk home.
A small boy came running up the street, maybe in his fifth or sixth summer, in an outfit so covered in muck and grime it was truly impressive. He came to a skidding halt before the pair, breathing hard and beaming.
"Miss Cerce! I was watching from 'neath the smithy house! When you come in and done for the raiders! I never seen anything like it!" the boy belted out, his energy infectious. Cerce smiled down at him.
"We're just glad you are all okay, nothing some hard work won't fix, things'll be back to normal in no time."
The boy completely ignored her, instead continuing to mime the swings of Cerce's great halberd, and recount the story of events with mounting enthusiasm.
"When you swung it round, that fella' head popped off like hitting a river reed with a stick! Flew right up in the air it did, I seen it!"
Cerce gave an awkward smile, and looked over her shoulder at Carnaby, who only nodded appreciatively.
"He isn't wrong, got quite some height on it with that bloke."
"Well he shouldn't have come at me with a bloody scimitar," Cerce hissed.
"Falchion, but either way ye've got the right of it there, aye," Carnaby said, and nodded to the boy who was gesturing for Cerce's attention.
"I done a picture of you! Come see!" the boy said, giving a yank on Cerce's skirt, and Cerce followed to the wall of a nearby building.
The walls of the smithy were a grimy gnarled wood paneling, and there in chalk facing the street was a rendition of the day's events displayed for all to see.
A crude stick figure stood, legs apart, the single line denoting Cerce's great halberd in her hands swinging out before her. Long lines of hair flowed behind, and the face bore a fearsome grimace and fangs. About two thirds of the way up the figure were two distinctive and over-large orbs jutting out from the chest.
Cerce smiled, as best she could, and nodded.
"Oh... Well, thankyou, that's... lovely that is, hm."
Carnaby pointed with a smirk and slapped Cerce on the shoulder.
"Ey, he's got your best side down Slither, got an eye on 'im that lad. Nice one."
"Could've at least used green chalk," Cerce grumbled to him under her breath.
The two began to head down the dirt street, greeting folks with a smile here and there, receiving simple treasures and gifts as they passed, and finally strode out across the long moors towards the coast.
"Years from now, when they talk about the Stormbringer's adventures," Carnaby rumbled up, and Cerce saw it coming a mile off, "they'll point that little town and say 'Here, she once saved this little 'amlet from a bandit raid. They say she knocked a bandit's head clean off with a single swing... of her giant tits.'"
"Shut it, Carn. It's a long bloody walk home."
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