III.

In the wake of dawn

The mist of morning lingers before it leaves

Invisible eyes, red reflection

It is you

Smiling in the midst of the moor

- Opeth

For a long time, there was only darkness, and the sensation of falling through eternity. Slowly, memories flicked past like the dying light of many candle flames; some brighter than others. Gwenyfar turned and reached out for the light, but another found her first, blinding her as it swallowed her whole.
In the blink of an eye she was in her room, laying on her bed, waking from her sleep. Relief washed over her, but was quickly snuffed. A figure leaned against the threshold of her bedroom, and she recognised it immediately. Her heart slammed against her chest as he approached, his hand finding her neck, squeezing until her eyes bulged.

"You are worth less than nothing." He breathed. A smile split his face as he watched her struggle; her legs kicking and the heels of her palms slamming against his chest.

She cried out for help with her last bit of air. They were not alone in the house; her other roommates heard but they did not come. Why did they not come? Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she fought, every movement becoming weaker, her vision fading to black.

She was thrown back into the void, panic rising in her, splitting the darkness. She woke, her lungs straining as she gasped for lungfuls of air between sobs. Her eyes were blinded by tears, and she begged for help even as she felt the sensation of his hand around her neck fading into memory.

She was alone. The pain of it still lingered, like a hole longing to be filled.

Gwenyfar reached out, grasping at empty air, tendrils of her fever dream still holding fast to her mind. Hands held her wrists, and she pulled back before realising they were not his. Someone was speaking to her, but she could not string together the words in her mind. A cool, damp cloth was pressed against her forehead, and then wiped her eyes of tears, clearing her vision.

Two women knelt beside her. A lamp was lit and sat atop a small table just behind the women, casting their faces into shadow. Gwenyfar swallowed hard, her breathing still rapid in the aftershocks of her fever dream, her eyes taking in as much detail as she could manage. Their hair was done up in a style reminiscent of a french braid, likely to keep it out of their eyes. One had tresses the color of caramel; the other a shade of pale fawn. Golden beads decorated the braids, and their ears were pierced with studs of gold as well. Their clothing was simple and practical: a long crimson dress, with close fitting sleeves that went just past the elbow, the skirt slitted up the sides to allow freedom of movement, finished with loose pants and leg wraps up to the knee.

The woman with fawn-colored hair shifted to rinse her cloth in a large bowl of cool water, allowing the light to illuminate her features. Her expression was soft and pleasant, allowing Gwenyfar to ease herself into the assurance that she was safe… At least for now.

"Water…. Please?" She flinched at the gravelly sound of her voice, but was grateful that they understood her plea. The woman with the caramel hair pressed a cup of warm liquid to her lips. Gwenyfar drank deeply of the tisane, noting the flavor of it as something that tasted like green tea brewed with fragrant herbs she could not name. The woman's lips curved into a smile as Gwenyfar finished the whole cup. The warmth of the brew settled in her stomach pleasantly, and she laid back into the pillows behind her head.

"Where am I?" She murmured, her voice much clearer now. She could see that she was on a cot laid out on the earth. Woven rushes covered the ground, and various trunks were stored about the room. She was in a large tent, woven from heavy fabric and held up by thick, strong beams of wood. The door flap fluttered, letting in a sliver of firelight from outside.

"Arvaarad found you," The fawn-haired woman answered, her voice elegant yet strangely accented. "He brought you to the encampment for healing."

Gwenyfar furrowed her brow, trying to remember, but all she could think of was a pair of dark eyes, the color of garnet. She shook her head in confusion.

"I don't understand…" She uttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "How long have I been here?"

The healers exchanged glances, the caramel-haired one answering this time. "It has been four days. It was not certain you would live."

"Oh," The combination of the tisane and her fever muddled her thoughts and impeded her tongue. Her gaze fell to her bad arm as she tried to find more words. Her arm was expertly bandaged from her elbow up past her shoulder, spanning across the left side of her chest to help keep it secure. She impulsively flexed each of her fingers on her left hand, making sure it still worked.

Though she was covered in a thick blanket, Gwenyfar could feel that they had not clothed her. She remembered washing in the river; letting herself float in the calm shallows… And from there her memory became hazy. The flush on her cheeks deepened with embarrassment, knowing that mostly likely the whole encampment had seen her without a stitch of clothing. She was certain she did not dress before this Arvaarad brought her here.

The rushes cracked as the caramel-haired stood, wooden wash-basin in hand, and left the tent. The remaining healer stood as well, moving about the tent to gather a few items. Gwenyfar watched wordlessly, feeling the heaviness of sleep beginning to drag her under.

"The markings…" Gwenyfar started at the sound of the woman's voice, her gaze wandering to find where it came from. The fawn haired woman stood by the tent flap, her pale eyes fixed on the woman abed. "On your chest and arm… What are they?"

"Ah, my tattoos…" She struggled to find an explanation that wouldn't frighten the woman. "The mark on my chest is an Aegishjalmur. It is a magical stave rune against the abuse of power. It's for…. Protection. And my arm… It is simply celtic knots."

The healer's expression did not reveal her thoughts, but she gave Gwenyfar a nod before disappearing through the tent flap. She was alone again.

She lay silently for a long time, listening to the sound of rain hitting the oiled fabric of the tent in a soothing rhythm. Her body felt as if she were sinking into a cloud; heavy, warm, comfortable. Her eyelids drifted closed, lashes brushing against her cheeks. Her cot vibrated gently with the approach of several feet, and rumbling wordless voices humming in her ears. She did not care to stay awake to greet the figures which entered the tent; sleep had already claimed her.

The trilling of songbirds graced the still, humid morning. The sun struggled to break through the retreating thunderheads of a storm, casting the encampment in a shroud of soft grey light. Mist swam around the ankles of those who had risen early to light the cook fires for a morning meal.

Many tents, between thirty or forty if one counted, were pegged down on higher ground, raised up in such a way that the water would drip off the heavy oiled fabric into a trench dug specifically to run off excess water. The trench was wide as a man was tall, and cut through the middle of the camp, leading out to join the rushing water of a nearby stream of glacier runoff. It seemed that the trench was also cleverly used to dispose of waste, which would be carried off into the stream nearby.

The perimeter of the encampment was fortified by a stand of palisade, reinforced at the base by river stones encased in mortar. It was clear that this place had been built up several months ago; the wood of the palisade was new, but not fresh, and had been sealed with heavy oil which stained the wood to a deep russet hue. The slits in the palisade to allow the trench to flow freely were shielded by grates woven from interlocking oiled branches, preventing wild animals from entering. Wide, sturdy wooden planks had been mortared down over sections of the trench to allow passage from one side of the camp to the other.

A murmur rose like the hum of a beehive as the inhabitants woke to greet the day. The smell of spiced meat and freshly baked bread filled the air as cooks pulled giant loaves from crude clay ovens and fried strips of meat and eggs in cast-iron pans on grates over cook fires.

Gwenyfar sat up in her cot, taking in the sounds and smells of early morning. Her fever had finally broken the day before, and she was eager to be free of the confines of the tent. The healers had denied her clothing and made her stay abed, warning that the storm that had been raging outside would worsen her condition. She had been perturbed by their insistence, but she had no choice to accede.

Her head jerked toward the sound of the tent flap as the healers shouldered it aside. One carried a bundle of folded cloth, the other a woven basket with various sealed terracotta jars. Behind them, two other women carried in a wooden tub just big enough for Gwenyfar to sit in, but not big enough for her to stretch out her legs completely.

Her eyes dashed between the two new faces, and the familiar visages of the healers, her eyebrow raising with a question. The women returned her expression with one of reassurance and routine. "You must bathe if you are to recover properly from your sickness. They are here to fill the basin with water." She recognised the voice of the pale faired physician. She had asked for their names just the other day, but they had simply shook their heads and told her 'healer'. Gwenyfar had responded by naming them herself, to avoid confusion for her own sake.

It was Fawn who spoke to her now; and the other who she had nicknamed Cara, short for caramel, had left the tent with the unfamiliar women. The healer knelt at her side, folding down the blanket so that she was exposed down to her hips. The woman's eyes lingered over Gwenyfar's stave tattoo, half-hidden by the bandage, and the piercings through each of her nipples. Her full lips were pulled taut, her azure gaze unreadable and missing no single detail.

The injured woman shifted awkwardly as Fawn began working on unraveling the bindings of her arm dressing. The fabric started out white at first, but as she pulled the layers off, it became increasingly more stained with dried blood. The last strip of cloth came free, revealing a series of puckered, scabbed-over wounds. Fawn gently grasped Gwenyfar's arm, twisting it this way and that, inspecting the injury for any lingering signs of infection.

"You are a lucky woman, that you still have the use of your arm, and that the Arvaarad had found you when he did." She stated matter-of-factly, her tongue clucking as she tested the flesh with her fingers, making Gwenyfar flinch. "I have wondered what manner of creature inflicted this damage, but you do not wish to tell me."

The injured woman steeled her gaze and remained silent. Simply telling her would not suffice. She knew that more questions would come, and for some reason felt compelled to hide the truth of it, at least for now. The was a distinct impression that her story would make her presence here either welcome or unwelcome, and she was not prepared, physically or mentally, to find her way alone.

The thick leather of the door flap creaked dully as Cara and the two unfamiliar women reentered the tent. They each carried two large buckets, full of steaming water. They emptied the water into the tub, softly grunting with effort, before exiting the tent to retrieve another round.

"Come now, I will help you stand." Fawn bent down, hooking her arms underneath Gwenyfar's and lifting as she struggled to rise. At once she was on her feet, and despite the weakness of her legs, the injured woman smiled brightly. She walked toward the bath, her steps careful, the healer's arm around her waist to brace her incase she slipped.
The was a small stool in the tub for her to sit on, which would make it easier for her to get out later. Fawn guided her gently into the tub, and stepped away to a nearby table. Gwenyfar watched as the other took a knife and began chopping up a small bundle of fresh herbs, depositing fragrant mixture into a small wooden bowl.

"These will enliven your senses and cleanse your body." The pale-haired woman remarked, seeming to sense her question. She returned to the edge of the tub, showing her the contents of the bowl, pointing to each one as she rattled off the names. "Royal Elfroot, Lady's Mantle, Goldenseal, Rose petals, Lavender…"

The tent flap fluttered again, water buckets sloshing as the women approached and emptied them into the tub. Fawn sprinkled the herbs into the water, which now came up to mid-chest. A smell much like the pleasant aroma of brewed tea filled the tent. Cara dismissed the new faces silently, and joined Fawn as she began to bathe Gwenyfar.

"Uhm, I can do this myself, surely." She protested as the two healers began scrubbing her skin pink with natural sponges. The women gave her odd looks and carried on in their task, making her stand so as not to miss a single spot. The injured woman's cheeks flamed in humiliation, but the let them do as needed so it would be over as soon as possible. They at last came to her wild, black hair; combing it out before pouring water over her head and lathering it with spiced soap, taking several washes for it to finally come clean.

Guiding her out of the tub, they parted and combed her hair through with some sort of lightly fragrant oil to tame it's wild curls. She found it rather odd that they used such things on her; she had the impression that these toiletries were considered luxuries and were not easy to come by. To spare such niceties on an unknown woman like her was strange indeed.

When all was said and done, Gwenyfar found herself fitted into a set of plain clothes, identical to the ones worn by the healers in almost every way but color. Whereas theirs was a muted red, hers was dyed a worn shade of willow green, and was belted at the waist with a russet leather girdle-belt. Her newly bandaged arm was hidden by the close-fitted, elbow-length sleeves of her tunic dress.

"You should remind your legs of their use and greet the day, bas." Cara suggested, the smile on her lips not reaching her eyes. "The cooks will have a meal ready, should you want to break your fast."

Gwenyfar nodded, uttering her thanks as she carefully made her way to the tent flap. She hesitated only a moment before pushing it aside, her eyes squinting as dawn's light needled her eyes. Her tent was on a built-up platform, with a small set of stone stairs leading down to the main path. The other tents were assembled identically to her own, and she wondered how she would be able to find her way back later in the day.

Despite her conundrum, she moved on, following the path downhill where she could see the shapes of many people gathered. The path intersected with others, creating roads which lead to other sections of the encampment. Force of habit caused her to lift her gaze and look both ways, but she paused a moment, her eyes locking onto what looked like a group of armed men coming down the intersecting path.

Her breath caught in her throat as they approached. Five towering men, their skin various shades of gleaming iron, pale hair pulled back into a single thick braid down to the small of their backs. Horns curved from their strong brows around the shape of their skulls, banded with bronze cuffs connected with each other by decorative chains. They wore no armour, but their weapons hung like a silent warning from their belts. If they noticed her watching, they didn't show any of it. They simply turned in front of her, walking down the path she intended to follow, their braids shifting as they moved.

Gwenyfar swallowed, falling in step several feet behind them, her mind filling with questions. As they approached the main gathering point of the encampment, it became plain to see that these men were not unique. Soldiers filled the yard, many heads taller than her and crowned in various sized horns. Humans moved between the horned giants, but were far fewer in number. Many of her fellow people seemed to look a lot like refugees, huddled by the fires, thanking the cooks who handed them generous plates of food. Others assumed roles such as cooking, cleaning, tending the animals, and other such mundane things. Strangely, she did not see the horned ones amongst the people doing the grunt work. That puzzled her.

Spices burst pleasingly on her tongue as she chewed the last strip of meat the cook had given her. She sat on a bench by the fire, one of the few remaining after the main bulk of the soldiers had cleared out to do a drill outside the camp. The temperature rose steadily, despite their proximity to the mountains, and she could feel that the day was going to be punishingly warm.

Gwenyfar swallowed and turned her head, seeing figures approach in her periphery. A pair of soldiers, their skin glistening from morning drill, stopped just by her side. She rushed to stand, immediately understanding that they had come for her. The cook took her plate from her, and she turned to crane her neck up at the men, disappointment washing over her. They were most likely here to take her back to the tent.

"You are the bas with the injured arm." It was a statement, not a question. She nodded, and the guard who spoke to her made a sound halfway between a grunt and a growl. "The Arvaarad will see you, now."

The woman bit her lip, her brow furrowing as she tried to remember what happened the day this Arvaarad had found her. The guard who spoke turned on his heel. The other guard firmly grasped her elbow, and her gaze darted up to meet his as she suppressed the scream rising in her throat. Eyes of amethyst flecked with gold met hers through the slits in his helmet, lingering for several moments before turning away. The giant followed his comrade, pulling her along with him as she trotted to try and keep up with his long strides.

They were fast approaching the only wooden building in the whole encampment. It was easily two stories tall, and had been there for a long time. The oaken logs used to construct the building were well oiled, and the clay tile roof looked to be newly replaced. The horned guard led her to a heavy door, easily wide and tall enough to allow the three of them to pass without bumping into each other, and bound with bands of iron and outfitted with advanced locking mechanisms. There were two other soldiers stationed either side of the door, and they nodded to each other as Gwenyfar was led over the threshold.

The hall was lit by lamps, but dark compared to the brightly daylight outside. Gwenyfar blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to her new surroundings. The floor was paved with slabs of flat, smooth stone. On either side of her, for at least thirty feet, were stalls where enormous horses were tended, ruminating over flakes of hay. A soldier looked at them as they passed, grooming a massive grey palfrey. At the end of the hall, there were rooms she assumed were used to store away various supplies; ten in all, they were barricaded by massive ironbound doors, boasting extensive locking mechanisms. Pegs on the wall allowed a number of lead lines to be hung up, ready for use.

She was pulled around a corner toward another door which sported only a handle to pull it open. Their purpose was clear; wherever they meant to take her was behind this door, and the firm grip the amaranthine-eyed soldier had on her made her uneasy. Gwenyfar closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as they pulled her through the door.

She felt the horned-one's fingers flex and drum against her skin as if to wordlessly alert her. She allowed her eyes to open and drink in the soft lamplight which illuminated the room. It was modestly appointed; a large map pinned to a table in the middle of the room, nearby a row of desks piled with billfolds of crisp parchment and various writing utensils, and a few doors for what she assumed was storage. The soldiers led her to a bench nearby the entrance, and bade her sit before turning to exit. The violet-eyed one seemed to linger a moment longer than proper protocol demanded, and she tilted her head as her eyes followed him out of the door, leaving her all to herself.

She had naught to accompany her but the steadiness of her beating heart and the sound of guttering lamps. There was a strange feeling in the air as well; as if it were charged by static energy… As if the veil was thin and the power of the Gods was pressed taut against it. The sensation made the hair on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end. She was so engrossed in it, she did not notice that she was no longer alone.

Asala-taar. The reader inhaled deeply, chair groaning as they adjusted their position. Garnet eyes examined the flowing script which filled half the page; a report received early in the morning by one of the viddathari:

9:43 Dragon - 9th day of June - Seventh day since arrival

As previously observed, the bas suffers from fits during her sleep. Tincture of valerian root (twenty drops in evening tea) has been administered with poor effect. Recommend tincture of valerian to be increased to forty drops.

Condition of left arm continues to improve; recommend current treatment to continue until appendage has healed. Bas does not seem to recall incident which led to her wounds.

Observations continue as directed. Bas seems to suffer many symptoms similar to patients returned from Seheron diagnosed with Asala-Taar. Probable cause of night terrors affecting her sleep. Does not wake when attempt to rouse her is made. She speaks on occasion during her sleep; cannot make sense of her words.

As previously noted, the bas has permanent markings on her injured arm and in proximity to her left collarbone area. She admitted that they had purpose with magic, though no evidence of such has been presented, with examination yielding no results. Patient has also been pierced in two locations; beyond aesthetic the purpose unknown.

Tamrassan-eva

The sound of the nib of a quill scratching against vellum filled the room as orders were written, then finished with setting powder to dry the ink. The diminutive form of viddathari retrieved the now-folded letter from it's author and left the room. The garnet-eyed Qunari settled back into his chair once more, a low grunt rumbling in his chest as considered the situation at hand.

They had been on patrol when the Saarebas had alerted him with a growl, directing Arvaarad toward a place where he could feel the veil grow thin. The air seemed to crackle with energy as they followed the lead to a clearing within an island of trees. They had found a trail of blood leading from a circle of stone; strips of burgundy fabric in a patch of tall grass crushed by something which had crawled to rest there. The trail had lead them out of the clearing into the deep forest, and the Arvaarad had sent two Ashaad forward to scout the trail.

It was his duty to track down what ever had come through the veil and dispose of it as was expected. The fact that the trail had led to a human bas was not expected. She was clearly injured, and delirious from fever. He recalled the softness of her shape, and noted at the time that she was likely not of the warrior caste. Yet then Qun would find use for her; it wasted not.

Her clothing had been gathered and sent to the Isskari in Par Vollen for study, as they were made from unfamiliar materials and dyed in colours he had never seen replicated before, and furthermore touched by the fade. He was admittedly interested to see the results of the report that would return to him in a few weeks time. He was sure the consequences of the report would aid his purpose.

The task had been assigned to the Kithshok, but it was clear with more consideration that the Arvaarad was more suited to dealing with the distraction of the human bas. All evidence pointed to the fact that she had entered the fade in corporal form and had been expelled in the clearing with the circle of stones. That demons may have come through the fade with her was a dangerous possibility, more so if she was bas saarebas. Though she showed none of the usual signs, at least while under observation, it was Arvaarad's duty to ensure the cantonment would not be corrupted by an unleashed bas-saarebas.

Now that she was sufficiently healthy, he planned to move her closer for safety and observation. A room had been prepared in the upper level where the other saarebas were kept organised by their karatam. Special rooms had been modified to safely hold at least six karataams with four saarebas each. Besides himself, there were only three other Arvaarad holding the leashes of fifteen Saarebas between them. He himself only had three in his care, since his fourth, a female, had been taken by the Tal Vashoth in battle, causing Arvaarad great shame.

Arvaarad stood abruptly, stretching his frame to full height at roughly eight feet, his suddenly foul mood seeming to swallow up the rest of the space in the room. Though it was truly saarebas's shame for refusing an honorable death and abandoning the Qun, it was Arvaarad's by extension, and the Qun demanded he hunt her. Saarebas would be a dangerous asset to the Tal Vashoth.

Arvaarad rumbled softly, his fingers brushing against his asala and the decorated control rod belted at his hip, leaving the quarters he shared with the other Arvaarad. His path lead him to the rooms assigned to his karataam, separated from the others by a marked door. Inside, a corridor stretched out before him; two doors on each side boasting locks which would only open with a single unique key that was always in Arvaarad's possession. Each room, except one, was occupied by a saarebas under his care.

The great qunari walked first to the door on his left, the locking mechanism clicking as it accepted his key and allowed him to open the door. The room was modestly appointed; a brass lamp hung from the ceiling, a raised cot occupied one corner, and a table with a chair stood on the opposite side. The room's occupant looked up from the text of a worn book, eyes like carved ice, snow white hair loose about his bronze shoulders. His pale horns, once great in size, had been shorn in submission to the Qun and were now capped in pale gold. The chains which secured his heavy collar around his neck clattered as he stood to greet his keeper.

The Arvaarad stepped away from the door, control rod in hand, allowing the saarebas out of his cell. He repeated the same action for the next two doors; binding, masking, and finally leashing his karataam before leading them out into the encampment.