Providence! The delight is clear on her face. Her right hand wraps around the hilt, sliding it free of its temporary wooden sheath. Niccola hefts it a moment and then rolls her eye heavenward in silent thanks. The fact that she is half-dressed, bare foot, and bedraggled no longer seems to bother her as she trips forwards on light toes. Blade-dancer they called her once, and her body remembers.

The straw men are large. The straw men are strong. The straw men are made of a thing seemingly harder than flesh. But she is quick and not yet old. Long braid swinging behind her and limbs flashing, Niccola aims a slash at the closet creature, seeking to cut off a leg. Then perhaps an arm, she thinks. Dismembered, surely it would pose little threat. She sets to.