Author's Note: Yeah! Another story be me! It's going to have some crossovers from Tamore Peirce's books, if you haven't read them, no big problem. I'm going for as much humour as possible, so help me out if you want. So now, enjoy!

Chapter 1: Just Another Servant Girl

Against the thick Celtic sun, a line of commoners marched along a field, carrying their heavy bags of corn, barley, hay and wheat. Their daily harvest, it was to be given to the king for him to spread equally among his people. Although that never really got managed properly, it was law. They were men, strong burly men, most carrying three or four bags. But there was one, who was not as strong, not as tall, and not as masculine. She was a girl of fifteen, earning her keep as an old farmer's daughter with two bags over one shoulder as she tried to stuff the remains of a breakfast in her mouth. She was about five foot with five inches, with pale blue eyes and tanned skin; her auburn hair flew around like flames. She wore tan breeches and a baggy white shirt with calf high boots. Gulping down old jam she heaved her sacs into the large wagon, trying to walk by inconspicuously as her hair reflected the sun and men whistled before she punched them in the gut. But of course as every day she was stopped. "Girl!" cried the inspector. She sighed and turned around. He never did know her name. "Are you still here?" He demanded harshly. "This is no work for a woman, someday you won't be able to do this and I'll know why." She gulped. She tried to please her father's name often. But all she came up with was, "That may be sire, but I'm here now." In a thick Irish accent.

This followed by him demanding what her name was as she walked past him. The men in line simply called her a fallen angel, or something ridiculous. They lied of course, she was as simple as they come, and there were hundreds of girls doing what she did. Being the disappointment of the family, born a girl when everyone prayed for a boy, carrying the burden she could never fully meet expectations. Not being able to carry work, or work more, or help more because of what wasn't proper and correct. After years she had had to take up some of it for her father's health, her mother and aunts and uncles ad all died in a fire. But she was the only one those foolish men new, and she pitied them a lot for being so blind, she knew she wasn't beautiful as they thought. But they pitied her more for being the blinder.

~ยค~

Rora Borealy swung open the door to see her father, busy making buttons. He had been a carpenter, and got a little eccentric at times, so he wouldn't except the fact that he wasn't one now. There were rods of wood beside him, for making buttons. Pine. Rora's blood went cold. The only pine trees for miles belonged to the mages of the land; it belonged in the North, not this terrible sun. But they were mages with odd houses that kept anything alive. Last time he had done that was two years ago, and they'd imprisoned him for three months, saying the next punishment would be loyalty to the throne. In other words, joining the army. But maybe the mages wouldn't find out. or take it so bad, she'd heard they were mostly nice kind people.

A knock came at the door.
Voices followed, "I'm looking for a Mr. Borealy."
Rora opened it a crack to see the silver trimmed hats of mages. /Uh oh\ she thought, and welcomed them in.

A/N: Super short eh? Well review and tell me if you want more, if not, well then fine I'll type up my long-long-long-long-long story that'll take months to type up. Tiboo for now, remember REVIEW!