“What are you doing?” she says.
“I’m writing down everything you say and do,” I say.
“Why?” she says.
“Because I’ve never seen such a display of martial ability. You are truly a hero of the age. I will record your story so it may spread across the land,” I say.
“Whatever,” she says.
She stands there.
She looks at me.
“What are you writing now? I’m not doing anything,” she says.
“I’m writing that too,” I say.
She wipes her sword clean on the sleeve of one of the dead bandits at her feet.
She examines the blade. It is a standard straight sword without military markings. It’s covered in small scratches and there is something about its edge that makes me want to check my throat. It seems weightless in her hand.
She appears satisfied with the state of the thing and tucks it into a rather nice sheath that hangs from her belt.
She pulls the dead coachman from the carriage. She kicks a dead bandit off its roof. She removes the dead passengers.
She boards the coach and takes up the reins.
The horses bristle but only for a moment.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m coming with you,” I say.
“No you’re not,” she says.
“But I must!” I say.
“Not my problem,” she says.
“How else will I be able to chronicle your heroics?” I say.
“You think I have some fighting ability?” she asks.
“In all my days I’ve never seen swordplay as yours! Your skill with the blade compared to the skill of others is as the sun to mere candles!” I say quite poetically.
“Then we agree I have some talent,” she says. The tip of her sword is at my neck and I have no idea how it got there. “And we agree I could kill you now with the smallest flick of my wrist. Are you more trouble than the smallest flick of my wrist?”
“Possibly. But would it not be a waste of your wrist to flick it at me?” I say.
She considers it. The sword does not move from my throat. It’s difficult to write with a sword at your throat. I am persevering.
“You’re still writing,” she says.
“Yes. I just made note of it, actually,” I say.
“Whatever. Keep quiet and stay out of my way.” The sword flashes back into its sheath. My powers of persuasion are not to be underestimated, reader. I am a very accomplished scholar and know my way around an argument.