The three generations of women

You gesture to the matriarch. "I'll chose her and her younger sister's home."

The matriarch raised her eyes in surprised before her eyebrows crinkle in amusement. That tells you that your response is the correct one.

Their house is smaller than the Village Head’s, nestles near the edge of the forest where the scent of pine and damp earth clung to the eaves. As you crossthe threshold, the grandmother, Hilda, moves with a grace that defied the silver at her temples. She is a woman who looks to be in her late thirties or early forties. Her daughter, Adela, stand nearby, holding the hand of a small child who watchea you with wide, curious eyes.

Once at the house, Hilda gestures for you to sit by the low-burning fire. "You have done us a big favor, traveler. "Allow us to show our hospitality."

She brings a basin of warm water infused with wintergreen and mountain salt. While Adel took the child to the small loft above, Hildegard kneel before you and unlace your boots. She then takes a thick cloth and begin to wash the grime of the road and the soot of the battle from your legs and arms.

Every stroke is deliberate. Her fingers lingeres on the muscles of your forearms, feeling the tension that still coiled there. "You chose a house of women," she murmurs, looking up at you.

"A bold choice for a man who claims to be a simple merchant. You could have stayed with the Headman, in a bed of goose feathers. Here, we have only straw and the heat of our own skin.

"I chose this house for a reason,"

Hildega pause, her hand resting on your knee. "Then you understand our ways?"

"I've an idea, but do explain."

"When we invite a man into our home, we invite him into us. That is how we ensure the blood remains thick." She stands up and she steps into the space between your knees. "My daughter is young and fertile, and she will welcome you."