He perks up at that, not unlike a hound listening for the tip-toeing hooves of a deer. It was faint, but it was there - the splash of water currents on great, immovable stones. From this distance, it was a barely perceptible rumble. That helmet of his was shaped to let his ears and eyes be free when his visor was up. He can hear it.

Safflower is cued to the left with a light pressure from his thigh.

“What do you mean by that?” He asks, not entirely understanding the metaphor. “Most women around here are pretty different from you. Don’t see many of ‘em pick up a sword.”

It wasn’t impossible, of course, but a woman warrior was rare enough to be notable. Maybe there were some that had good disguises. He’d heard stories like that - girls dressed up as boys to travel unbothered.