Prologue:
Short yet clever fingers worked busily, carefully stitching stolen thread onto a fabric surface. It had taken months to gather the supplies, but now, at last, the work could begin. Stitch by stitch, the small creation began to take shape under the artist's loving hands. A mass of short scarlet hair, a delicately sewn suit of clothes, a mouth that was perpetually drawn too thin and blue eyes that peered out cautiously at the world from beneath a makeshift cowl.
One must always be cautious, the artist remembered with a grim frown, studying the wary blue eyes. If nothing else, the past few months had revealed this truth.
A flash of fire, angry howls, a woman's scream as warriors and wizards faced off in battle, too ensnared in their own righteousness to see the blood of innocents pooling beneath them.
The artist whimpered as hands went to cover ears, trying to shut out the noise of chaos.
A flight through the night, and a weary trek for days too many to count, while all around the screams never ceased. How many times had they narrowly escaped the same fate that had sent them on this mad rush in the first place? How many times had a comrade suddenly seized up and fallen in the road, struck by a stray spell or arrow? How many times had glazed eyes and cold, unfeeling bodies been left behind as the survivors fled like field mice from the advance of a starving and temperamental feline?
Taking a breath, the artist turned to regard the new creation, its hawk like eyes forever watching. She had appeared as if by chance that last day. A bandit, coming to take advantage of the refugees, had been struck dead by an arrow between the eyes. Salvation had come from out of the blue, and when the artist spun around wildly to look for the savior, she had been there, calmly stepping out from behind a tree as she felled another pillager. One had rushed her, crying revenge, and she had whipped about almost too fast to be seen, drawing a blade across the man's stomach and sending him tumbling to the ground.
The artist had watched in awe, as whispers floated throughout the glade.
"Did you see that?!"
"Serves those fetchers right."
"Wait, is that . . .?"
"Can't be, she's too important. It'd be some luck for her to be out here instead of at Haven with the Inquisitor."
"But it is! It is her! We saw her once, with the Divine. Don't you remember, Dad?"
"Sweet Andraste . . . Sister Nightingale. "
They had all been quickly escorted to the safety of Haven afterwards. The artist praised the silent savior for arriving in time, ending what had begun to seem a futile prolonging of inevitable death. Despite the many tearful thanks she received though, the savior did not attempt to engage in much conversation with her new followers, merely smiling kindly (though it did not quite reach her eyes), and asking them to move swiftly in her sweet, almost musical voice. It was only when they finally reached Haven that the artist realized their former attempts to circumvent the fighting had gotten them hopelessly lost before the Nightingale had appeared. The strange woman, Left Hand of the Fallen Divine, had disappeared almost as quickly as she had come, like a shade drifting back into the walls of the stronghold.
That was a few weeks ago. Ever since then, the artist had been attempting in vain to get up the nerve to approach the woman and say thank you, having been too intimidated before. However, every time, the somewhat distant Spymaster had seemed far too busy to deal with the praise of a mere merchant's child. So the artist would slink back into the corner, returning to work.
Carefully lifting the newly made doll, the creator smiled. Sister Nightingale may be too busy to watch after the children of Haven, but her fearlessness and seeming invulnerability had inspired one of them. Hopefully, the child thought, tugging the doll to her chest, her version of her hero would do half as good a job. One must always be cautious. The world was not safe anymore.