The warrior sat at her usual corner. She slipped her cinder slowly wanted it to last the afternoon. Her unexpected extended stay at this small quiet town had reduced her limited resources to almost non-existence. The quarter filled small leather poach hanging at her belt, was steadily deflating, reminding the warrior that it was time to move on.

Her earning for escorting the farmer's wife and daughter safely home was almost spent. Two days at the most. Two days and she will have no choice but to move on. Other than the matter of diners, she had another assignment waiting for her. She was widely sought not only because she was highly skilled but also that she had never broken a promise. She was reliable. She was trusted.

But the warrior sitting at the corner table through the late morning into the afternoon had no intention of leaving at all. Her thumb drawing circles on the wooden table absently as her eyes followed every movements of the innkeeper's daughter intensely.

The innkeeper's daughter knew that she was being watched. The knowledge was not credited to any of the so-called instinct or six senses as what warriors had been trained to cultivate. She was just a simple innkeeper's daughter.

It was due to the fact that every time she turned her head to that particular corner that the warrior seems so fond of she would find the warrior looking…staring at her.

Every time.

Their eyes would at times lock together and the warrior would boldly look her into the eyes and she would lost track of the surrounding until the world closed down on her, consisting only she and her. Then she would realize what was happening and straggled to break free. It was unnatural to look at a woman like that. Both times, when this happened, she was almost sure that she saw amusement in those baby blues.

But…she was not afraid. Embarrassed maybe, but not afraid. Long years of working in the inn had trained her eyes and nose to recognize the signs of danger and she saw none from the beautiful but withdrawn warrior. Yes, she used the word beautiful for indeed, the warrior was a picture of perfection.

Her long silky black hair that fanned over broad and muscled shoulders. Her vivid stunning crystal blue eyes that seem to look through your soul that made the ocean that she loved pale in comparison. Every move was precise but graceful. She moved liked a skilled dancer, a fierce warrior, a stunning woman. Every pore radiated confidence, power…she could have been a great commander of an unbeatable army, the leader of the people, a rebel, a hero, a legend. Her muscles rippled sensuously every time she left for her room, climbing those old cracking stairs…displaying the well-toned body hiding under the leather not that it covered the whole surface much. She believed that leathers were solely invented for this warrior alone. It suited her so well… like a second skin.

"Sheila!" a loud familiar voice called breaking her thoughts, bringing her back to reality. "Make yourself useful young lady! You've been moping that table for ages!"

"Yes father." She replied quietly as she began to collect empty plates and mugs from the next table. She was tempted to bring up the point that her brother was missing since morning, no doubt out chasing after skirts while she was up before dawn. But knowing her father, it would end up a fruitless argument, succeed in only angering him meaning more chores for her.