Renaissance Faire

To the Great Lord Hoffman,
My apologies for the delay in post, good sir! After finally returning from my wary travels, parchment and quill seem like a delicate luxury, as does a good cleansing of my travel garb. I fear I may have acquired a flea infestation from some village peasants! The later brings to mind a festival I happened upon, for the smell of grimy townsfolk and fresh cattle dung burned in my nostrils for days.
It was a bright and cheery atmosphere despite the stench, which was intensified by the damp and muggy air. Children sloshed through rain puddles, mud mucking their boots as they squealed and darted through the ever-crowded streets. Music and laughter surrounded the many street performers, an exocentric mime entertaining the crowds in his silly black and white attire. Peddlers enticed me with their wares, fine jewels and trinkets beckoning me to enter each marquee.
However, it was the knowing smile and confidently cocked brow of an older wench that caught my attention. She stood in the shadows of her tent, wiry ginger locks nearly hidden from view by a peculiarly shaped hat. Her crooked grin widened at my curious stare, a silent command to enter. My feet seemed to move on their own accord, closer to the mysterious woman than I ever would have dared. As I entered her canopy of commodities, the hairs on my neck stood raised and my heart seemed to hammer at my rib cage with impressive force.
“Welcome.” She said with a strong Irish dialect, her voice raspy and low. “Me name is Grace O’Malley, but I’m known around these parts as ‘The Irish Problem.’” She laughed heartily at her own remark. “Take a look around, won’t ye?” I smiled weakly at her round, freckled face before taking a quick glance at her wares. Silver pendants and jewels rested on the soft, navy-blue velvet that lined her walls, though nothing really piqued my interest. I inched slowly toward the exist, for I could feel her eyes on me. I was almost there when, to my dismay, she spoke.
“Nothing fits yer fancy, young lass?” she asked, forcing me to turn and face her.
“No ma’am, afraid not.” I said, already backing out of the stuffy tent. However, I stopped myself, taking in her strange appearance. Many tarnished rings adorned her stubby fingers, and gold necklaces dangled around her neck. What I had thought to be an ordinary maiden’s dress seemingly transformed into something spectacular. Sheer, midnight-blue silk made up the sleeves, with silver moons and stars stitched into it. A thick, brown-leather corset covered the bodice and her long black skirt was made of the finest fabric.
“Pardon me, lass, but yer gawking.” Grace O’Malley said, throwing her head back with another loud, bellowing cackle.
“Oh, s-sorry!” I answered hastily, snapping out of my trance. “But where did you acquire such magnificent cloth?” I wondered aloud, awe present in my wide-eyed gaze.
“Ye’d be surprised what kinds of ships wash into me ports and get an… unexpected visit from yers truly.” A wicked grin stretched her features.
At my confusion, ole Grace O’Malley began to tell me of her days as a marauder at sea. She was clever and quick-witted, and convinced many to follow her reign by threatening and frightening them. To scare nearby ships, she would bath in animal blood, tie woman’s clothing to her mast and shamelessly whip it. The men at a distance would only see a crazy women and blood splattering everywhere, scaring them to surrender. My uncertainty soon turned to respect and admiration for Miss O’Malley was a fascinating character. I am certain you would enjoy her company, Sir Hoffman, and if perhaps you should ever happen upon a mysterious stranger, give them a listen. There may be more that meets the eye.
Yours Truly, Andrea Drag