Once again, she spit out dust from her mouth. Once again, she challenged a mighty warrior from her tribe and fell, defeated. Some younger warriors called her a fool, reaching out to fast to a level she could not attain. Some of the elder warriors watched, knowing that each defeat brought more knowledge, more skill at arms. Yet, even they thought her overly rash and presuming in her challenges. Yet, never had the Belgae bowed down or known fear against greater opponents. Some of the greybeards remembered when they were only hot-blooded youths and challenged their betters.

Standing up, still a bit unsteadily, Cat went to see the armourer, already groaning seeing the state of her weapons and armor. Cat went groaning herself, when she saw the elder from her village coming to once again "advice" her in investing more in development of her fief then in her own armory. She knew the old dodger was right, but every silver going to the village would not contribute to her future glory. Or maybe, just maybe, it would ?

Sitting on the porch of the tavern in her village, watching the docks, leaning on her big hammer, Catherine felt content. Maybe too much so. Complacency might lead to ruin. Her advisors were happy, and so were the people she'd pledged to protect. Still, threats might lurk over the horizon. And she still wasn't a hero. ***SIGH*** She still wasn't a hero. War would be bad. It would threaten everything she's try to help build. But without war, how, how, could she ever be a hero ? Competent administrators, they were never considered heroes, were they ? Peace ? Where there ever leaders in peace who became heroes ? The once so agressive youngster watched her villagers and decided that maybe, just maybe, peace wasn't that bad after all. As long as nobody threatened her villagers. But how could she become a hero ???

Cat was standing alongside her engineer as the walls of the newest building in the village went up. When the rope dragging up the stones slipped, she rushed in and helped keeping the platform steady, muscles straining against gravity. Her combat record was still far from sterling. But she had found out that sometimes heroes were not born on the battlefield. Sometimes heroes were born by their deeds, doing the best for the people they were supposed to protect. I was a startling, new revellation in her way of thinking. Maybe she should sit down at the porch of the tavern, and contemplate it with a fresh, foaming mug of beer. She knew some would say that was inappropriate. She also knew she could not care less about what others thought. Her path in life was becoming clear to her, finally. She knew what to do.