As Carrie sat her axe on the table, the young hat-headed man was quick to withdraw his plate from the table's center, making room for the tool. He examined her and her accompanying instrument. She seemed to be his own age. She was rough looking- Not necessarily like a greasy mercenary (which was the only thing he could expect when he heard “An axe wielding girl will be accompanying you”), rough like someone who fell off the back of the turnip wagon and was trying to find their way out of the city. Her coat had smears of dirt and red marks, miscolored stitches from years of wear nestled into every fold, the faint odor of smoke and mud. Branches and brambles still clung to her sleeves and hair- Her red hair- The reddest hair he had ever seen. She had smoldering braids draped down to her shoulders, each with hints of leaves and twigs still embedded in them. She looked friendly enough.

The young hat-headed man shot a close-to-indignant look at her before restraining himself- He would much rather eat in peace rather than interrupt it with overbearing business, if he wanted indigestion he would dine with his family again. Though, he wouldn’t classify this lunches’ business as “overbearing”, it was simply rather strange, the strangest he has had in a long while at least. He was familiar with people dining with their work- paperwork and letters and receipts to review- Never farmtools though, he wasn’t quite sure how you’d fell a tree inside a dining hall. He’s dined with swords that sat atop tables, though, and much to his displeasure this was such a meal.

He shouted, “Hey! Hey! Can we finish eating before we get to business?” And was quick to shrivel back into himself as he spied an imagined scowl, “And- Uh- Do we really need weapons on the table? I mean you’ve got a napkin on your lap and a sword on the- Actually nevermind forget about it-”