She leaned back, letting her smile drop and instead feigning ennui as she tossed an arm over her head and scratched at her ear. Don't let them see you sweat.

"You want to hear my life story, is it? You who only comes at life's end?" It hadn't been his question. Hadn't hardly been near it. "I was born in a pretty house and was given pretty things and sang pretty songs but pretty doesn't count for shite when you're called."

Such an emphasis on that word. Called. At first, she'd kept wearing her pretty dresses all through her training. The lessons. The books. The lectures on vampires and demons and other beasts. But then she'd suffered a second calling, the one she speaks of now: "Blacksmith you may have been, but you must have heard it. The ocean's siren call -- tempting you away."