"A half-decent rider on a half-decent horse has to be able to sally forth and fight without relying on reins. When you have the best with the best, all the rider needs is their voice and the horse understands." Lashan smiles crookedly and pats Thistle. "Not that I or these poor children are in that category."
The stablehand is probably not going to agree that her favorite isn't the best. Still, Safflower has been trained to be sensitive to many different cues, and tolerant of many different riders and their weird antics on her back. She hasn't spent years racing out across the plains on maneuvers with a war band and a single rider.
The oncoming party slows but the twins press forwards with set jaws, one meeting Guts' gaze and looping her arm in a distinctly protective gesture around the other's shoulders. Forgoing all honorifics, the other calls, "Lashan!"
"You're here to tell me I'm too feeble to ride out and go looking for a girl," Lashan says with disgust. "That's what it condenses down to, isn't it? Time's wasting."
The Healer-priest raises her chin defiantly. "We're here to remind you to find her and bring her back. Not to go into battle. You are mortal, Lashan. Die here, and later, not out there with a sword through you."
"I know last week scared you, but you're reading too much into this," Lashan says. Her voice is dry. "This-" she thumps her lamellar -"is insurance, not a statement of intent. Believe me, children, I can-"
The other priest has been staring intently at Guts, black eyes and set face unreadable. She interrupts the old woman and says, "Give the boy your sword." Lashan stiffens, automatically putting a protective hand over the hilt of her longsword. Basically no one in earshot is any happier; there are gasps, and Vena is holding her friends' hands. The priest goes on. "He doesn't fight like you do. His armor isn't like yours. If it actually comes to battle and not trading arrows at range, he'll survive. Won't you, boy?"
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The stablehand is probably not going to agree that her favorite isn't the best. Still, Safflower has been trained to be sensitive to many different cues, and tolerant of many different riders and their weird antics on her back. She hasn't spent years racing out across the plains on maneuvers with a war band and a single rider.
The oncoming party slows but the twins press forwards with set jaws, one meeting Guts' gaze and looping her arm in a distinctly protective gesture around the other's shoulders. Forgoing all honorifics, the other calls, "Lashan!"
"You're here to tell me I'm too feeble to ride out and go looking for a girl," Lashan says with disgust. "That's what it condenses down to, isn't it? Time's wasting."
The Healer-priest raises her chin defiantly. "We're here to remind you to find her and bring her back. Not to go into battle. You are mortal, Lashan. Die here, and later, not out there with a sword through you."
"I know last week scared you, but you're reading too much into this," Lashan says. Her voice is dry. "This-" she thumps her lamellar -"is insurance, not a statement of intent. Believe me, children, I can-"
The other priest has been staring intently at Guts, black eyes and set face unreadable. She interrupts the old woman and says, "Give the boy your sword." Lashan stiffens, automatically putting a protective hand over the hilt of her longsword. Basically no one in earshot is any happier; there are gasps, and Vena is holding her friends' hands. The priest goes on. "He doesn't fight like you do. His armor isn't like yours. If it actually comes to battle and not trading arrows at range, he'll survive. Won't you, boy?"