Xena had never been big on words. She was a woman of deeds, and judging by the number of people who fled or flocked when they saw her coming, she usually got her message across.
Gabrielle, the little brat, seemed to be nothing but words. Every pace of every journey was matched double in Gabrielle’s words. And her stories! Her stories were entertaining, but so poetic and wordy that they were too ridiculous to listen to.
And then one day, Gabrielle had written Xena a piece of prose. “It’s yours,” she’d said. She was surprised to find she was touched.