Over the objections of my sweet, but bossy little Scribe, I feel the need to interrupt my historical account and comment on a few observations made by Kevin, one of my oldest friends. Kevin did know me when I was very young and I’ll not deny that the events he told happened, although I’ll confess, I don’t remember some of the details. But, after hearing what Kevin wrote, there are a few things id like to say.
First, over the years, I’ve endured unwanted attention from many men, and while its obvious that it had an effect on Kevin, I can promise you that one broken wrist has never haunted me. I’m sure I regretted it at the time, and perhaps I was even young enough to look stricken or “almost in tears” when the man shrieked, but I really doubt I was thinking about how I might have permanently have ruined his sword arm. More likely, if I did react that like and drop him, it was because I hadn’t meant to hurt him at all and he was making a scene. I’ve never been totally oblivious to how fragile human bones can be, but Kevin seems to over estimate me on that account.
Second, I was not, back in Fail, pretending to be some little obedient southern female trying to hide behind my big brother. I was confused and concerned, feelings that were made much worse by the fact that I was used to looking for my father to make those kinds of decisions and he’d recently died.
The issue of male attention is one that I should probably address outright. Even at that age, I knew that men sometimes stared at me. I worked in a tavern when my brothers, who were far less suited to such things than I, chopped wood and did the outside heavy work because the customers liked my looks. I wasn't that daft.
Which is not to say that I was a flirt, like Hilda and Becky, the two girls Kevin had likely noticed. For one thing, I wasn't interested in flirting and for another, I wasn't at all then, or even now, very good at it. The art of flirting, like singing or playing a musical instrument, is something I'm just not well suited to. I'd love to paint masterpieces, and I've certainly envied people with talents like that at times, but I learned my limitations young and trust me, a woman my size throwing herself at a man is an invitation to disaster and often humiliation.
Nor am i totally lacking in feminine vanity. I don't obsess over my appearance but grooming and to some degree taste in apparel have their place. If someone calls my ass fat, or remarks on my udders, I'm not inclined to smile. But if I take offense, it's not because my feelings are hurt by the observation as much as how it was made and by whom.
Lastly, I would like to say something about grandchildren, or more precisely, children in general. They have no business reading this account, nor, in my opinion should men and women who slay others for a living be presented as role models. I'm neither praising nor condemning my profession, nor am I saying children shouldn't play with wooden swords. But I've known good men and bad men who fight for a living, and even the good ones are no angels. Tis fine to tell tales of slaying dragons and vanquishing evil, but even doing a great deed does not erase other misdeeds.
Of course, being good with a sword doesn't make one a good philosopher or storyteller either. Which is why, I shall stop rambling and let my scribe make what I've said less unworthy of reading.
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