The usual battle sounds hovered by my ear: a warrior’s last exclamation as he was struck down, a young soldier’s rash battle cry, the last breath of a dying war horse, a veteran’s grunt of acknowledgment as he found renewed strength in the loyalty and devotion in his fallen comrade’s life.

I surveyed the battlefield; it wasn’t pretty. The dying lay all around, moaning for death to arrive earlier. The wounded sat behind a barrier and griped their various limbs to stop the flow of escaping blood. And the surviving soldiers were mourning the loss of the dearly departed. Minstrels sang only of the glory that met a hero on the battlefield. They obviously never fought a war before in all of their sheltered lives.

The battlefield is not a place for the faint of heart. And though I knew Rolfe was strong and aspiring, this was not the battle for him. The war between our region of Livaley and our neighbor Ofadow had not been an easy one. I was more experienced through previous skirmishes, but Rolfe in all of his short thirteen years was not. So Father and I retained permission for Rolfe to join in this fight.

Hefting my sword to find a new and more comfortable position, I stared the enemy down. Many may be out, but I was perfectly fine, finding new strength by the advanced skills and abilities I knew I possessed. I faced my opponents, holding my sword outward. I picked my target and charged. He was a sturdily-built young man, holding a spear and...looking frightened.

"Rolfe, you insolent boy! Where are you?!" Angered as I was, it wasn't surprizing to see that my call had reached everyone's ears. Well, almost, expect for--you guessed it--Rolfe's.

I guess it's to be expected by an rash, aspiring young boy of fourteen. He proclaimed he lived in my shadow--yeah right!--the shadow of seventeen-year-old female swordfighter. Yes; you heard me right. I'm a master of fencing, and a girl to boot.

As my father's eldest child I was taught the ways of the warrior, instead of embroidery and manners (against my beloved mother's will, of course). But that was to be expected too. I am my mother's only daughter, which makes my upbringing all the more painful for her. She couldn't dress me in those frilly infant dresses for social events as it was "an abomination to all warriors across the land" according to my father. I'm sure she wanted to do that to my three younger brothers also, but that went against my father's statement that "boys are raised to be men, and men who dress like that are an abomination." So I can proudly say that I never wore a dress in all the seventeen years of mine. Faded blue tunics and brown slacks (with various pieces of armor at different times) are my usual attire.

But living in my shadow was quite pushing it. Although my brothers also learned the sword, Rolfe for some reason declared that he should have been the eldest, as he was a boy. (What that has to do with anything is beyond me.) I pressume my brother is jealous of my father's special love for me, as I am the oldest. But that isn't my fault: I didn't go to God and scream, "Oh! Oh! Let me be born first! Rolfe is an insolent brat with nay a thought but for himself! Let me be born first!" Imagine what would've been the outcome if I did!

So Rolfe has promised himself to be better at anything I do. Which, believe me, is a hard feat, as I am practically master at whatever I do. Rolfe on the other hand...well, it seems his promise only makes his defeat worse. But I am forgetting the matter at hand!

Rolfe could be heard a mile away, so I located him promptly. There he was, stabbing the corpse of a heavily bleed soldier. That was just like him, to stab repeatedly a body after it was dead. I stalked over to him, grabbed and lifted him by his collar, and practically blew his ear drums out.

"What are you doing here?!" I screamed. So he may be skilled with Scandivad, father's gift for his tenth birthday, but he's still no match for me and thus no match for any soldier on this battlefield. "Father will kill you when he finds out!" I admit, I was being harsh and loud (as almost every eye on the battlefield was on me), but Rolfe had no permission to be here.