"Missus Brushwood?"
There was no answer from within the cabin.
"Ehm. Missus Brushwood?" A head poked through the door. Though Daphne sat at a small table in the corner, clearly awake, there was still no answer.
"Daphne?" Now she looked at the door with a smile, defiance flickering in her eyes.
"Hmm? What do you want?" The girl, some dirty creature who Daph felt was more a victim of misfortune than a true thug or brigand, seemed uneasy.
"Mister Harold...well...he sent word. We's s'posed to get the camp all orderly an' such. I hear you were...kinda good at that sorta thing. So..wanna help?"
Daphne rolled her eyes inwardly. "When will I get it through their skulls...the only thing I'm good at is beating things up." Remembering her failed attack on Harold, she scoffed. "Maybe I'm not even good at that anymore..."
She stood and followed the girl out, studying her as they walked. She was skinny. Malnourished. Covered in bruises. The more she saw her, and a few other young lads and lasses, she was more convinced of her idea that some of these folks were just horribly burdened in life.
"Still. There is always another way." She knew where their paths and choices would lead, but she still felt compassion for these poor youths. Perhaps she felt more compassion for them because of it, in fact.
"Why do you need the encampment all spruced up? Seems the organised madness works well for y'all anyway," Daphne inquired, raising an eyebrow as they neared some sort of supply shed. She'd decided helping make the camp nicer would give her something to do anyway...so long as she didn't aid in strategic defense.
The girl paused, biting her lip. "Boss's comin'."
It felt as ominous as the lass made it sound, and somehow Daphne knew it was not Harold to whom she referred.
