'They need a whole holiday for...this?' Alynore shook her head and continued on her new patrol route, trying to ignore the couples floating in boats through the canals, or lovers picnicking on the Park lawn. She adjusted the blue, silver, and gold tabard of the Silver Dragoons to distract herself from a pair getting more than a little affectionate in a dooorway. Not her business.

Memories flit through Alynore's mind, of muffled moans, thuds, and giggles nearly every night; if it was quiet, that just meant Ma was spending the night in some man's own bunk. Sometimes one of the men would be around a few weeks, or months; on two occasions, over a year. But then Ma'd get restless, and flirtatious, and one man would disappear and a new one would take his place.

Alynore never gave it much thought as a child, inured to it all rather early...

“Heya schweetheart!” A male voice, too close, pulled her out of her reverie. She turned quickly, one hand on the hilt of her longsword, while the other was ready to reach back for her shield.

“Aw, no need fer that honey,” he admonished, half falling on her. She almost gagged on the smell of cheap booze mixing with the overly strong cologne being tossed about by so many people; this fellow must have been showered in the stuff. The man's arm draped over her and he clumsily pawed at her clenched right hand. “C'mon, purty thing like you, must know about havin' a good time--”

The fist connected with his nose, blood spurting over Alynore's uniform. She spun to the side as he stumbled backwards. Her leg swept out, plated boots striking the backs of his knees. He hit the ground hard, sobbing and spitting as she crouched next to him.

“I am not your 'sweetheart' or your 'honey',” she said firmly as she reached down, batted his hand away, and set his nose with a satisfying crunching sound. “I am a Dragoon, and I am not interested in this nonsense,” she continued as she called upon the Light to soothe his pain.

Alynore stood and turned away, leaving the man blubbering on the sidewalk. She'd have to get her tabard cleaned at the end of her patrol. She recalled other, older men who'd had similar ideas, had called her those names, and tried to change the rules she'd grown up with.

“I'm not my mother,” she said to those memories as she continued on her way to the Mage District.