Raza
The horse is an entirely new thing for Raza. She’s always been a callused-foot kinda woman, dusty in Longheat an’ damp in Flowerbirth. Seems like there’s nothin’ her feet ain’t seen, except for a pair’a stirrups. So she is currently navigating the, ah, delicacies of ridin’ all day an’ then hoppin’ off and realizin’ your legs don’t work anymore. So that’s two new things for the Torcher who tends to like shit just the way it is.
Raza ain’t too happy. But I’m sure that surprises no one. She’s currently hobblin’ back from the latrine, extra cranky because apparently squatting also hurts like a motherfucker - when Aurelia’s strangled fuck right off floats through the night. A quicker step makes her wince, but the proprietress is doin’ her best an’ when she rounds the corner, she can see the new Governor (no Queens here, soz) furiously kicking at some gourds.
Pickin’ up a rock, she yells, “Watch yer left!” before hurling it towards one that was lookin’ to pull the Fireheart’s ankles out from underneath her.
reppin' a district of obvious misfits
