Who cares about a stupid umbrella?

By the time the sun rises, every waterway will flood with gossip. Did you hear? Do you know? Vermillion Beast of Lanterns struck again! Terrorized an entire village, she did. But how? But why? Wasn’t there a whole guard of the Dominion’s finest staying there? All battered! All beaten! They say she batted them aside like they were nothing. Their swords shattered against her hide. Their hearts melted at her terrible voice. The last one fell, groaning, and she vanished into the fading light. Nothing! They could do nothing! Fear the Beast’s wrath!

(How brave, how brave, they’ll say, that the soldiers would fight so the villagers would be spared. How noble! How heroic!)

Nobody’ll be talking about an extra umbrella, scattered amidst the rubble. Too plain a design to even notice; deep forest green, dotted with tiny, scarlet flowers. Blends right into the mud. Pretty bad umbrella, in the end. They’re supposed to be for showing off. Or telling someone you don’t want them getting wet.

So who cares about a stupid umbrella?

The priestess, apparently. Of course she’d care. What blue-veiled busybody could resist such an opening? ‘Oh, dear, what a terrible thing! No umbrella! Don’t worry, I’ll [i]graciously[/i] let you share mine. Aren’t I such a bright, shining, kindly help to all? You may thank me at your convenience, while I tell you all the ways your life’s gone wrong.’

Han didn’t [i]need[/i] your umbrella. She had her hat. And a hood. Which were perfectly fine, and keeping her dry enough. But despite two whole layers of Don’t Talk To Me, and a vast array of danger signals perfected over hundreds of years of highland tradition, her coldest shoulder had company. 

(Press against her, feel her tighten. Brush her knee, feel her start. Not to recoil. Never to retreat. Tense. On edge. High alert. A tiger, coiled to pounce. [s]Or flee.[/s])

She could try to keep ignoring her. She ought to keep ignoring her, until she got the idea and left to find easier praise. All she’d have to do was nothing. Sit, on a barge, in her own land, surrounded by some kind of fancy rain-activated perfume (worth more than everything she owned, no doubt) while an unwelcome visitor blabbered pretty lies in a voice oh so effortlessly high-class.

Just that. And nothing less.

Han half-turns to meet her, one sharp, emerald eye peering from beneath hat and hood, pinning the nosy priestess to the deck with her stare. “Tired of [i]attention[/i], bud?” A growl ripples through her voice. Innocent bystanders strongly consider scooting away. “You wanna run that by me again?”

Go on. Cut to the chase. 

Tell her why you’re [i]really[/i] here, priestess.

[Rolling to Figure Out a Person: 5 + 6 + 0 = 11. First question: What do you hope to get from me?]