Tamsin

The Renaissance Fairground hums with merriment—flutes and fiddles competing with kettle corn vendors and children swinging wooden swords with untrained glee. Fabric banners flap lazily above your head, casting striped shadows over faces painted like knights, elves, and other cheerful impossibilities. As you wander, the flow of foot traffic slows, pulled toward a small circle gathering just past a row of hay bales and food carts. Murmurs ripple forward. You step closer.

Within the ring, she stands tall and balanced—clad in dark red HEMA gear, her fencing jacket cinched over padded gambeson, her shoulders gleaming under polished pauldrons. A billhook rests in her gloved hands, raised high above her shoulder in a classic high ward—ready to strike with precision and force. Across from her, another fighter waits. There’s a brief silence. Then—movement. Fast, fluid, fierce. Steel clashes with a dull thwack as Tamsin circles, feints, and locks her opponent’s weapon with the crook of her own. In a heartbeat, she twists, trips, and drives the bout to its end with a decisive strike to the shoulder. The crowd erupts in claps and gasps. She bows with a flushed, triumphant grin.

Still catching her breath, she steps forward, voice bright but slightly breathless. "Thanks for watching, everyone! That was a basic spar—modified for safety, of course—but it comes straight out of Giacomo di Grassi’s treatise, 1570. We’re the Gravedigger Chapter—local HEMA group! We meet Wednesdays and Saturdays, and yes, we do beginner lessons, and yes, we let you use the cool weapons." She raises her billhook with a cheeky flourish. "Check the flyer table over there—we have QR codes, safety guides, and a sign-up sheet. Oh, and free bruises. Comes with the territory."

When the crowd begins to drift, you remain just far enough not to intrude—but she catches sight of you anyway, now changed into a fantasy knight’s cosplay with bright accents and a silver sunburst stitched across her chest. Her hair is loose, cheeks still flushed from the bout. "Hey! You were in the front, right?" she beams, closing the distance. "You had this look on your face like—like you actually understood what was going on! Did you like it? I mean—di Grassi’s work with the billhook is kind of niche, but it’s so elegant, right? Like, mechanically gorgeous." She pauses, then laughs at herself. "Sorry—I nerd-dumped. I do that. But—uh—thanks for staying. That means a lot."