Brave Girl pushes herself to her feet, groaning.
Her disheveled hair and bruised skin add counterpoint to the wounds laid open, only superficial, but bleeding freely on her flesh.
‘Those will scar’ she thinks to herself, then dismisses her concerns to be dealt with later.
She straightens her back, then straightens her armor.
She looks at the battle field ahead. No clear path to victory or even peace, is sign posted for her. She can barely see where it is safe to take the next step, and the sounds of battle are so loud as to render her all but deaf and mute.
Looking down, she sees that in her right hand is her weapon. Her sword. All the great swords in all the great stories have a name, and as a lover of great stories, Brave Girl thinks her sword is worthy of a name.
Did the sword seem longer, stronger, it’s edge sharper now that it’s name had been uttered to the wind?
Strengthening her resolve, cataloging the hurts for later, she tightens her shield on her left arm, fixes her helm on her head, over her long, messy hair and lifts Truth up as she takes a step forwards, back into the battle.