The look that Rose from the River gives Scales of Meaning in the moment before blades are crossed is still amused, but with a scorpion-tail crook in the corner of her lips. “What guards? You mean the scraps of dignity you tried to hide behind? [i]ara-ara[/i], I’ll take those too~” The pole slips from her hand and strikes the ground so hard that it bounces right back up, so that Rose from the River may catch it in a more comfortable grip for sparring. Bold Thorn Pilgrim! Without taking the pack from her shoulders, she laughs and moves to bat away the princess’s blade, to toy with her and find her measure. But the daughter of two queens moves like water rushing down from the peaks, bright and sparkling cold, swift enough to drag the unwary down into the undertow. Almost too late Rose realizes that she has been drawn out of position. Is she so old, then, that this little snowbrand can trick her? The crystal blade comes whistling in to count coup by kissing her cheek, and both Rose and the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade twist with a sudden violence. The swords meet with a high note, the Ice-Star gleaming cold in the low light, the crystal blade of the high mountains straining a hair’s breadth from Rose’s cheek. Eyes meet: one pair dark and beautiful in their focus, their intensity, their love of the sport of princesses; the other catching the dying light and seeming to glow, save for the narrowed pits at their golden heart, black as ink. Rose from the River inhales, long and slow, and lets the shiver run up from the soles of her bare feet on the grass to the flowers growing in her braids. Her heart races in her chest, fluttering like a bird caught in the hand. “Oh,” she says. For a moment she stands on the edge of the sword, as they make no move to disengage. On one side of that blade, she continues to hold back and then makes some kind of mistake that will lead to this child’s sword pressed lovingly against her neck. She will offer her sword to the princess’s care and offer herself up to her mercy. It will be this girl’s decision as to what to do with her; to give her over to Scales trussed tight, or to bring her as a maidservant on a leash. Or she could enjoy a real fight and [i]try.[/i] She should not. She struggles enough with her love of battle, real conflict, the burn of the candle. She should yield to this child’s insufferable confidence and prodigy-like skill, be a stepping stone on the great and grand destiny she wears like a coat. [i]aum shantae aum,[/i] the jewel is the axle of the lotus. But Rose from the River is only a [i]good[/i] pilgrim. She is a [i]masterful[/i] huntress. So she stops playing and throws herself into an advance, meeting those teasing little feints with a delicate sword-web. As it is said, [i]The sword is the heart of the field from which danger radiates in four directions; turn aside this way or that, know that the blade will meet you.[/i] “Who [i]are[/i] you, child?” Rose from the River is too intent on her craft to veil her respect for the girl’s effortless skill. Here is a girl who must be met by ambush! Her eyes do not miss a trick; her feet are light and heavy by turns, and the sword-katas of the White Doe School seek to instill through repetition and solemn contemplation what this girl knows from her heart. She should lower her weapon and yield to the little blade-saint. She should! A low growl escapes her as she instead slings her pack to the ground, a humiliating gesture; that she would need to fight unburdened against this tiny thing! Doubt creeps in, her heart still pounding: what if she loses? Does she still cling to some foolish pride, hidden behind her affectation of serenity? [Rose from the River gives into the temptation to have a real fight, going against the guidance of her philosophy; she also is so on the back foot that she rolls a [b]5[/b] for Fight.]