Natasha sighed. He was talking with Marisa again…
Why wouldn't he talk to her like that? They compared swords and techniques, they sparred… Natasha was only there to heal him if Marisa hadn't killed whatever was going to injure the Swordsmaster.
Don't dream too far; don't lose sight of who you are. Don't remember that rush of joy…
He could be that boy; I'm not that girl.
Marisa was beautiful, that was for sure. She had curves and her outfit-- though definitely not revealing, for Marisa was not that sort of girl-- did show them. Unlike Natasha's cleric robes, which hid everything but her face… Not that she would have wanted him to just notice her for her body, though. She wasn't that sort of girl, either.
Natasha walked off towards the edge of camp, wandering aimlessly and brooding. When she passed Franz, who was on sentry duty, she noted the way back-- but the cleric kept wandering through the sparse forest.
She closed her eyes as she thought of Joshua and Marisa, and her throat swelled up. She leaned on her staff, using it for support. A loud growl from in front of her made her scream. She blocked the Gwyllgi's claws with her staff, but eventually she tripped and fell, her staff falling out of her hands.
Natasha looked away, knowing it was only mere seconds before it-- she heard a howl of pain, and looked up. There stood a redhead, sweating as if he had run from the camp, his sword dripping the monster's blood. He turned around, and his eyes betrayed worry, though he acted cheerful as usual. "You okay, Natasha?"
She smiled. "I'm fine. Thank you."
Blithe smile, lithe limb- she who's winsome, she wins him. Gold hair with a gentle curl…
They walked back to camp, Natasha blushing a little at being alone with him. By the time they entered camp, Natasha's hand had found its way to his, and he squeezed it tightly. Marisa, standing by the gate and waiting for her sparring partner to return, saw them, and made her excuses.
That's the girl he chose, and heaven knows- I'm not that girl.