"The Lady — if you need a name, you can call her Miyako — is more qualified for the work than any one of you here," Ujuor talks down from his hanging stoop, overlooking the handful of boys and girls, cons and bandits, who loiter their evenings away around his encampment fire. The Lady in question keeps her own company away from the group, some steps to his right, her attentions on an assortment of weapons and artifacts spread out over a mat.
"But don't let that discourage you, eh? Faith. We all rise to our own level."
The masked bandit tosses down a hessian sack, letting the audience have their own way with the items inside. Technologies, credits, icons, secrets. They'll take what interests them, burn the rest, and come back another night, looking for more.
There is always more.
"No way to raise an army," the Lady says, not looking up from the polishing and reassembling of her tools.
"Do I look like a soldier to you?" Ujuor asks, sitting himself down, crossed, opposite her. He draws a bright red apple from his coat, reflexively holding it in salutation to the sky— superstitions from another place.
"No," the Lady answers. "But you carry a sword. That is enough."
Ujuor draws the mask up from his face. The grin. Always the grin, always the joke. His teeth cut down to the centre of the apple, spilling out the seed and juices. Sweet flesh in his mouth, savoured, now swallowed.
"Did you learn everything you wanted from that imprudent exercise?" the Lady asks, holstering her guns and sheathing her knives.
"No."
The core is tossed, breaking apart as it hits the ground.
"I will soon though."