Claire, Jeroha – Passerby
She went on walks around the north Belfort area. Strolls where she would be completely unarmed but for her parasol.
And yet she still managed to incite fear and awe into the soldiers that stood at their stations.
She hardly ever said anything; hardly ever took a glance from the broken road before her. She just walked. And smiled, because she knew that even though she was unarmed, there wasn't anybody to attack her.
Jeroha tried to find some sort of message in what she was doing, some sort of code in the paths that she took, but there was nothing. She emerged from the palace, a figure of beauty and intimidation, opened her parasol above her head and walked. Walked until the roads left her back where she'd started, even when the Doomseeds were falling and it was cold.
She passed him by one day. Even after, he could still remember – feel – how his heart pounded when she approached. She would kill him, surely, call for her soldiers. He was resting and nursing a new injury and hadn't been expecting her. When he looked up, he saw her walking down the centre of the deserted way. He hung his head; he'd been caught, and so foolishly, too.
And she passed him, walking on. Jeroha didn't dare move. It had to be some sort of trick. He listened as the sound of her steps quieted in the distance until he could no longer hear the clicking of her heels against the stone. He could hardly believe it. She had passed without even a word, as if she hadn't seen him. He stood, stared in the direction she'd gone in.
He didn't think he'd ever run so fast, but he guessed that supposedly near-death experiences did that to a person.