As the dust settled and the storm clouds rolled away, a figure in a battered green cloak strolled into town. It was the heat of the day. The shops were open but few were browsing, and the merchants in the tiny town were desperately fanning themselves in the heat. The figure walked right into the row of broken down wooden shacks, the only noise being his ominous footsteps and a stray tumbleweed. Merchants immediately began waving and calling out, breaking the silence in a desperate attempt to bring in more income, but the newcomer wasn't interested. Jessamine's keen ears picked up the noise as she was drawing a bucket up from the well.

"I've heard tell of a legendary blacksmith in this little heap of a town. Where is their shop?" he said, pulling back his hood. He had violet eyes and a long face covered in silver fur, quite the rare color for a kitsune. And he was rarer still in those parts as kitsunes of his build and size and fur thickness typically inhabited the icy north. Jessamine felt like a rodent compared to him, but she was determined to not let her size be a matter of inferiority. She stood up tall and said, "I'm the blacksmith's er...son. And I'm guessing you want a sword. Welcome to nowhere."

"Aren't you a little small for a boy?" The newcomer asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We don't grow that big here. And I'm the youngest, so I get the least. Come now. Let's get you a sword." Jessamine said, walking ahead of him and leading him to the blacksmith's shop. As they entered, the newcomer looked at the wall of swords all gleaming and impressive, and he tried to hide his delight.

"If your father is the blacksmith, kid, then why isn't he tending his shop?" said the newcomer.

"Don't call me kid. Ever. It's Jess...uh no. It's Scrapper to you. Nobody calls me Jess." She snapped, scrambling up onto the high counter.

"Answer my question." He replied cooly.

"My father is very busy with sleeping right now. And my brothers and I can sell swords well enough without him. What can I do you for?" Scrapper said.

"I need a sword worthy of me carrying it and able to channel quite a lot of energy." he said.

"You have a name, don't you?" Scrapper asked, looking at the wall of swords behind her.

"It's Xolt. But why do you need my name?" he asked, a bit annoyed.

"Hmm...Xolt. Has a nice ring to it. Well, I can tell you that your name must go with your sword. A warrior can't carry a sword into battle that doesn't fit him or his name, now can he?" Scrapper mused. She noticed that Xolt wouldn't stop staring at her large ears.

"Look, Xolt, if you want me to help you with a sword, you could stop gawking like that. Yes, my ears are real. And staring like that isn't how you should go about a business operation. Sheesh. Foreigners." Scrapper said. Leaping down from the counter and climbing a ladder that took her to the top rack of swords as she scrutinized each one. She then gave him a long look of contemplation and said, "Come back tomorrow. I'm afraid we don't have anything you'd want in stock."

"What about that one?" He asked, pointing to a large broadsword in the back of the shop.

"What, Marigold? Are you crazy? What good is running into battle with a flimsy fish gutter? That wouldn't do. And I know swords. Now out. Out you go." She said, grabbing the edge of his cloak and trying to pull him out the door.

"What in the Valdt do you think you are doing?" He exclaimed, still rooted to the spot.

Scrapper huffed and said, "You can't see the secret method my brothers use to make the swords, and they have to make a sword like nothing before it for a warrior like you. Get out."

Xolt rolled his eyes and said, "If you say so, kid."

"I'm warning you!" She growled, raising a fist.

"Pssht. Cute." Xolt said.

"You think my warning is cute? Go to the ring after dusk and I'll show you cute." Scrapper said, slamming the door.

She closed the windows and then got to work on the forge, stirring the pot of molten metal over the fire. She put on gloves and heaved the heavy cauldron over onto a large anvil where she pounded and pounded on it, sparks flying wildly. The blade glowed a dark silver when it was finished like the clouds of an oncoming storm. The hilt was fashioned from the finest black leather she could find, and she poured molten blue glass into a solution of aluminum oxide, sculpting it into a pommel. She fused the pieces of the sword together and realized that she had used the best materials in the shop, the materials reserved for palace guards and the Empress' knights. But the sword was far more intricate and sharp than swords made from the same materials. And it had an artistic and beautiful handiwork equal to no other sword. Scrapper looked down at the sword in surprise and mused to herself, "Whelp, that was illegal. He deserves it though. Even though he called me cute." She then gave the sword one last polish, gazing at her pitiful reflection, and she felt tears sliding down her face. Wings flapped at the window, and a bald beaked head pried its way through the shutters.

"Hello, Morteo." Scrapper said wistfully.

The vulture blinked.

"I bet he's honorable. Maybe a knight, even. Nothing like that walking dungheap I'm getting sold to. And this sword can't go without an escort. The likes of that handsome warrior shouldn't ever have to polish his sword." Scrapper sighed. She fitted a scabbard for the sword and then she wrapped it in dull gray fabric like swords made for commoners. Her brothers would steal the sword if they saw it, and she would be locked in a dungeon for making it she supposed. Though a dungeon would maybe be better than here.

She peeked out the window and noticed the time. It was dusk. She had to hurry to the ring. Scrapper dusted off her clothes and took off her gloves and apron, bolting out the door and across the cooling sand.

She ran as fast as she could, the ground racing beneath her tiny feet, as if she could run forever. The amount of energy she had kept pent up inside all day could not stay within her tiny frame for long. The torches blazing outside the huge fighting tent were a sight for sore eyes, and she burst into the place like a shooting star. Scrapper leaped under the rope that kept the fighters in the ring and looked at the audience with a menacing grin. There were at least a hundred or so smelly sweaty bodies crammed into the tent, all cheering at her arrival. Her large ears flattened to the sides of her head at the loud noise, but her demeanor showed that she was more than ready for the fight. She noticed Xolt in the audience, and she instantly avoided eye contact, instead looking around at her hundred or so adoring fans.

Then into the ring stepped her first challenger, a bulky man with a head like a rhinoceros and a hide like a dog's. He was new, she thought, looking at him up and down and analyzing him for any weakness.

"Kid, I think you're a little lost." The rhinoceros man said in a deep and condescending voice as if scolding her.

"I'm not the one who's lost. I thought I came here for a fight. It seems some rich freak's menagerie is one oddity short." Scrapper said.

Rhino-guy bared his teeth and said, "Now kid, I'd hate to see you get hurt, but that mouth of yours is asking to be silenced."

"How about you silence yourself. I can't even tell which end is which as it seems you're talking out of your other end." Scrapper nonchalantly quipped.

"I'm warning you!" Her opponent growled, pounding his fists.

"Heads or tails." Scrapper said.

"Why you little..." her opponent yelled, charging towards her like a stampeding bull. She slowly shifted to the side, standing in front of one of the poles that held the ropes up which was a sturdy metal column. Just as he was about to hit her head on, she quickly sidestepped, causing him to ram into the hard metal as he was unable to halt his charge.

"Tails it is. Or heads. I really can't tell. Maybe you should get that looked at." Scrapper said, bending over his large frame and gesturing towards the noticeable bump beginning to form between his eyes. Ten seconds and he was still unconscious, and Scrapper yelled "Next! I didn't even get to hit anyone tonight. What is this, taking it easy on me? Come on! I wanna' draw some blood tonight!"

A couple of guards monitoring the ring pulled her first opponent out of there and a four armed panther like man took his place. Scrapper leaped into the air and landed on his back, and he tried to wildly flail his body to fling her off, but she had seen this move a thousand times. With a precise poke to the base of his neck he was on the floor writhing in pain. He recovered quicker than she thought and managed to send a kick sailing over her head, before she held up her arm and caught his foot and gave it a good yank, sending him sprawling on his back. She then jumped on his chest and wrapped her hands around his windpipe until the judges declared a knock out. So much for a challenge.

Her next opponent was a brawny centaur whom she gave a serious scratch on the flank with her retractable claws. She proceeded to scratch at him, climbing up and down and around his horse-man body leaving deep red gashes. The fight was ended when she bit through a tendon in his hind leg, causing him to be unable to fight from blood loss and pain. He had tried but he couldn't even get so much as a scratch on her, because she was too agile and quick. She made short work of the rest of her fights, and soon those in line to fight her were backing away, hoping to dissolve into the crowd.

"I really don't see why any of you try." Scrapper said, wiping blood that wasn't her own from the corner of her mouth. She then continued with, "But I appreciate that whoever finds these so called fighters is concerned enough about my boredom to search our world for all the greatest."

The crowd went wild, and it was the end of that night's rounds. She headed home with her gold and collapsed into bed, wishing that all those opponents she had beaten had known that they were bested by a girl. But after the echoes of their cheers had died in her ears, she cried herself to sleep at the rejection and neglect she faced every day. It was routine now, and it was too late at night for anyone to hear her silent weeping. And so she cried alone, without anyone in the whole wide Valdt knowing the traumas she faced every day. If anyone knew, would they care? She didn't think so. Nobody cared about the girl who snuck out at night pretending to be a boy so she could feel accepted and a part of the community. And she was trapped within her own charade. She wove a shroud of lies around herself so that nobody could ever hurt the delicate little flower that she really was inside. The flower she was named after by her mother could never grow in the desert. And neither could she. The very lies that protected her had locked her into a place where she doubted she could ever escape, the cocoon of deceit being a barrier that nothing could break, and unlike other things with cocoons, there was no way she could change into something new. This cycle of pain and abuse she lived through every day was all she knew, and yet she so desperately wanted to be free.