There it was. The statement she hated so much. The title she hated more. Oh being a Shaman worked, oh it was very good for a lot of reasons. She had social standing, a certain pull being the daughter of a dead warrior and a crazy didn't have. But she hated it. She wanted to be a famous warrior. Those Elves that went to war and came back heroes. She wanted to be known for that sort of thing.
"No, you're a prince, if I remember your name correctly. Not a real one, but a prince."
Not the business of terrifying people with magic, or the business of being the person to tell which farmer the cow really belonged to. (In which case she normally killed the cow and split the bad meat between the two and kept the good meat for herself.)
"What gave me away?" She said quietly. Looking over her attire for a moment. The clothing was necessary in the way clothing had to be. Cover enough. This was no time for war paint. But her fingertips were dyed red.
"Do I have a glow about me too?" Bébhinn asked quietly. Hanging at her nearly exposed hip was the ornamental tomahawk. Crystal, pretty. Not a dot of blood on it. She had left her spear at home, no need for it here.
"We should be somewhere else." She mentioned. Looking off in the distance. "Somewhere less populated."