Rooka Delmirev was an accomplished adventurer. She could wield three kinds of weapons effectively, had slain monsters that threatened to encroach upon her village, and could sing bawdy songs with the best of them. She had her scars and her cracked horn and her mutilated tail, all of which she was terribly proud of. She knew how to track and hunt and bargain, and how to convince just about anyone that her small size had nothing to do with how capable she was. Rooka Delmirev, adventurer! Rooka Delmirev, the Sparrowhawk!
But right now she was just Rooka, little sister, and she was tired.
“What’s up, Piksel?”
Rooka had her big spear again today. She had it slung over her shoulder like it didn’t weigh as much as she did and that was something Piksel always liked seeing, because it was cool, and he liked that Rooka was cool.
But today he didn’t really pay attention, a little bit because he had most of his face buried in a blanket and a little bit because he had been getting upset again. Now he was upset and Rooka was going to know. “Nothing,” he mumbled, twisting the blanket in his claws. “Nothing is up, Rooka.”