The Folly of Fools (open)

    A hush on the desolate sidestreets of Taras. A quiet away from the cacophony that was the bustling market where folk milled about in droves to buy and sell their wares, some choosing to opt out of the practice altogether and simply let their fingers do the haggling for prices on their own with the constant demand for "free". Swiping what goods please their eye for the more nefarious of the thieves and then those who took only a small sampling of food here and there as a desperate plea for survival. The woman of the Queensguard did little to punish those starving chancing to pluck and apple from a cart, seeing no point in adding to their already immense suffering. Upholding the law was her honor bound duty since the naval officers of Taras had returned her once stolen life to her. She owed these people more than a lifetime's worth of fealty could grant, but she knew well law, order and morality was seldom as black and white as the letter of the law might have you believe.
So much space between the two spectrums was an immense field of grey like a field burned to ash laid bare, parting the land from the sea. It was not in her to punish those trying only to keep their heads above water, regarding the child reaching for the red morsel of sweet juices and nutrition laying just off the edge of the bushel stacked atop a merchant's cart with a sidelong look, but when his wide and terrified eyes met hers looking as if he might just soil his trousers beneath the vacant stare of the Guard cloaked by black.
A gentle finger pressed to her lips to assure the boy his secret was safe with her.
She could see the elation over take the fear as he grabbed the apple from behind the back of the oblivious orchard owner, the child offering up a nod of appreciation to the strange woman who seemed to ghost the fringes of the folk milling in all direction. A cloaked figure that didn't quite stand out, but nor did she fit in. A shadow on the wall that stemmed from no obvious source.
    She could recall the young ones of her old village so far back across oceans and time it was a place no longer within her reach, but their faces were all still so very present and alive in her mind's eye. Her young sister, Inga, running about with a pack of the village children like a company of mink poised to inflict adorable plights of chaos upon the unsuspecting village folk. Among them was Freyja, herself. Often posed with wrangling the flock of young ones while the men were out on voyage and the elder of the women, such as her mother, were away on a great hunt.
Only a kid herself, then, Freyja could recall the complaints flying from her lips that she could not join her father and elder brother, who was a boy only a couple years her elder and had been her age the first he'd set out upon the Seas with their father's company of menfolk.
The words flowing in the Nordic tongue of her people had been so stern from her father's lips.
"Dóttir, a skip is not a place welcome for women. The men believe it ill-omen."
She'd been enraged by such ridiculous words at the time, but thinking back to her own experience with boats and oceans now, the facts were stacking against her favor in that fight.
Perhaps, had she not been with her father aboard their longship back then, they may not have incurred the wrath of the Goddess Rán who beset her accursed sisters, the Siren, upon the small boat in her domain.
Perhaps so much could've been avoided had Frey not been such a stubborn woman, demanding to see the Sea the same as her Father and Brother whom she'd admired enough to want to take after.
Alas the Fates would not garner such favor.

    But "perhaps" and "what if" had to be a forgone conclusion now. Life was what it would be and dwelling on what had past did nothing to serve the present nor future. She would retain the lessons, the teacher being the cruel and unforgiving instructor that it was. That would be what she took from the indiscretions long lost to the winds.
She could not continue serving nor protecting her village, but she could offer Atelus that same, unhindered, devotion.
A plea for "Help" shattering the once-Siren's reverie as eyes, earthen like the ground after a dense rain, darted across the open market for the source of the cries when they fell upon an elder woman toppled to the ground.
"Ma'am," the word a clipped call for attention that beckoned to Freyja's darkened gaze as she knelt to help the poor widow back upon her feet.
"They took me ring," the elder madam cried out, clinging to the thick cloak that covered the Guardswoman's frame as she was raised back upon her own two feet, "It's all I've left of meh 'oosband."
"Where?" a single word question that did not go misinterpreted when a shaking finger withered by time drew upwards to point towards a darkened and desolate alley.
Freyja checked the matron was stable on her own, a quick nod of affirmation and she was taking off down the same path shown to her.
That midnight mantle she wore billowing like a ship's sail in the wind behind her.
A fork halted her pursuit, lingering long enough between the break to listen to the sounds all around her.
Running footsteps.
That was her best bet, flying in the direction they'd stemmed from just in time to see a leg disappear around a corner.
"Stöðva-- Halt!"
Freyja called after the thief who deigned to rob grieving women in broad daylight. A fool whoever this person was, to be certain. Rounding the corner just in time to duck beneath the blade that had been lying in wait for her arrival, metal slicing a thin streak along her cheek, the palm of her hand colliding with the jaw of the man who'd been foolish enough to mar the face of a daughter to a Norse Warrior.
A painful crack and he was out cold on the ground in almost an instant, but when she peered down at the foolish youth who'd struck a blow to her, she could tell that was not the owner of the legs she'd been hunting.
A partner, perhaps?
Then again, she was now among the seedier streets of Taras where Guards were not often greeted as the most welcome of sights. Partner or a misguided youth who'd thought to strike a blow against a member of the Queensguard, however foolhardy the task had obviously been, he was not her most current concern.
Swiping at the cut to her cheek to peer at the red that now stained her fingers.
Shallow. It would heal soon. Merely a source of irritation.
Fy Farao.
Where had that damned thief slunk off to?
She would find whatever hole he hid in.
A rodent could not escape the hunt of a feline forever.