The Shattered Lamp Tavern and Inn

Ylva showed up at the back door of the Shattered Lamp Tavern and Inn, a doe across her shoulders, anchored by her gloved hands at the dainty front and back hooves of the beast. At her belt were four rabbits hung by their ears, and on her face was a gentle frown.

She kicked with her boot at the back door given her hands were occupied. The contract she had with the Shattered Lamp was simple -- show up with meat, and they paid what they thought as fair... but unlike others who could go in the front way, she was told to go to the back. No doubt it had to do with the fact that she didn't ascribe to the "gentler, female" roles... and it might also have to do with the chip on Ylva's shoulder and how easily she could be drawn into a confrontation, usually resulting in violence.

She was a very angry young woman.

Impatiently, she waited.

Ylva hoisted the deer off her shoulders with a little bounce and let it fall into Tiny's waiting arms, glancing at him as he turned to put it away for butchery and then looking at Bess as she came over, scowling. Ylva didn't even have to ask what was bothering her, the frustrated tavern maid let loose -- not angry at Ylva, but angry at her current situation.

Ylva's hand undid the leather throng that kept the rabbits to her side and caught them by the ears, leaning over to lay them out on the counters of a kitchen she was familiar with. Her brown eyes caught Bess counting out more coins than necessary and Ylva opened her mouth -- "Bess, I don't need the charity," she said sharply, but Bess was already out.

Ylva huffed an annoyed sigh and picked up the bag and took a seat at a nearby worn stool as Tiny went to cooking. Ylva opened up the bag and began to fish the extra coppers and silver and gold out from it. "Idiot lordlings are letting their hounds bay and bay. Their chasing the game away. And I lost the tracks of the bear again. It's a clever beastie, and I don't appreciate it."

She reached for a basket of bread that had been baked that day and took a roll, figuring it was a trade for the pieces she had instead. "Who's the sorry sod that pissed on Bess?" she asked conversationally.

Coming through the front door was a hooded man. He wore a tattered, dirty black cloak around his figure, matching his horse outside. Once inside he removed his hood and the face of a rugged, wrinkled man was revealed. He looked around but saw no sign of the huntress, @ylva , who had seemingly came into the tavern another way. He did not catch a good glimpse of her and so it was hard to recognize her. The lone traveler walked to the bar and took a seat, tossing his fingers up to speak to one of the workers.

"Lookin' for a lass who just came in here. Had a doe and some rabbits on her... did you see her?"  Like his appearance, his voice was rugged too.  But it was also loose, comfortable, and outgoing.

"Traps are dangerous," Ylva answered as she bit on her bread. She wanted to use traps, of course, but they were dangerous to other hunters that were out in the woods, and with all the damn lordlings running about in their prized geldings with their prized hounds, she was more likely to trap the leg of a noble beast than she was to trap the bear itself. "I'll get him. I always get my mark."

She leaned back in her seat and stretched out her legs, warming herself in the kitchen when she saw Pretty Bess come back in and answered Ylva's snapping quip. "I don't want it being said that I need a bonus because I'm a woman," Ylva said, stubborn to the car, reaching a hand up to wipe a strand of her dark hair out of her face. "But thank you, Bess. You and your folk have always been kind to me..."

Speaking of her folk, Papa came back and informed them all that Ylva was being looked for. By a man. That information in total was enough to perk a brow on Ylva's face as she glanced around at the others. She finished chewing her bread then stood, wiping her hands on her thighs.

Dressed in her leathers, her thick, dark braid over her shoulder, she stepped out of the backroom of the tavern, and with a nod of Papa's head, she saw the cowled man that was looking for her. Ylva owed money to no one -- in fact, she owed no one anything but a hatchet to their back if they crossed her wrong -- so she knew it wasn't for any debt that she owed, and she'd been on her own far too long to have any debt collectors coming based on whatever far-fetched bills her late parents might have had.

Her gaze read that she didn't trust or like the man she was meeting. She was guarded, and her hand rested on her hatchet, as peasants -- for which she very much was one -- weren't allowed to have swords. "What do you want, then?" She asked, using no feminine wiles or glances, unapologetically rough for all her skin like milk and eyes like a doe's.

"You reckon correct," Ylva answered, studying his worn face, his scraggily hair, the smile on his face. She didn't like it. Maybe it was the chip on her own shoulder, but she felt like he was amused by her... that it was somehow funny that a woman might be capable of knowing a 'thing or two' about hunting, tracking, and all the in betweens.

"But why does that matter to you?" she asked him. She'd been all over these woods and forests, staying away sometimes weeks at a time as she learned the lay of the land, keeping a mental codex of plants, of animals, of survival, of the map of land grading and land marks.

Ylva Gerharde was not a friendly woman, and she was cautious about people, almost to a fault. She was stuck in a rut of caring too much or caring too little about what a person thought of her, and it was a natural repellent for a woman that might otherwise had garnered a bit of attention with her looks.

She was quiet for a moment, two, and then she leaned forward, resting her elbow on the counter. People had glanced over when they say Otto and Ylva talking -- it wasn't every day that a man willingly chose to speak to her, after all -- but now they chuckled when they say that glint in her pretty eyes.

"Listen, stranger," she said to him, and she poked him in his chest. "I don't need your winks or your smiles, and I don't need to be called your little helper, and if profit is what I think it is, then you can keep the damn profit to yourself." By the end, her voice was raised and she was kind of shouting. Kind of making a scene.

She realized it all too quickly and a hot blush fled on her cheeks as she glanced around. She cleared her throat and looked at Papa. "Sorry," she said to him, and feeling like she'd over-stayed her welcome, she brushed past Otto and out the door of the tavern into the darkening street, her ego bruised and smarting.

She was muttering under her breath, annoyed and pissed. The bitterness of the air bit at her cheeks and her nose, turning them rosy even through the shades of embarrassment she wore. She hated being at the center of attention, but her temper usually got the better of her, especially when faced with such boorish, brainless--

Her thoughts were cut off when the man's voice was at her back, making her stop and turn to regard him as he walked to her. He was confident, and he was not very playful -- no more smiles or winks, just cold, hard, brutal facts of why he was there, what he was doing. What he wanted her to help him with.

Everything he said rang with nostalgia down to her soul. She felt her pride smart from her assumptions of him as her serious hazel eyes read his face. He passed her and she bowed her head, cussing herself mentally. Her breath frosted as she had a short, internal battle with herself, and then she turned.

"Wait!" she called to him and she didn't run -- she had too much pride to run -- but she did walk quickly toward him, a confident rock of her hips not in herself as a woman, but in herself as a hunter. She decreased the distance between them if he did stop and looked at him. "I'll help you. But I want you to take me with you when we're finished here." She held her gloved hand out to shake on the deal, her terms laid out.