IV.
Canst thou tell me whence thou comest
And where thou goest
And what is, or what was, or what is to come?
For everything remains as it never was
- Eluveitie
The curved blade of her sickle sliced through the fibrous stems of a stand of elf root. A heady fragrance filled the air as she bound the stems with a piece of twine and added the bundle to the growing pile in her basket. Her gaze lifted to the fair-haired woman who crouched beside her, fingers working meticulously to pull up the roots of a blue cohosh plant before severing them from the stems and adding them to her basket.
The Tamassran. She was beautiful; her thick, braided hair was the color of spiced cream, decorated with shining golden beads etched with the symbol of the House of Tides. Her pale eyes were fixed on her task, and despite her concentration she always managed to look serene. And herself… She was just Tamassran-eva, apprenticed to Tamassran, and was not as elegant or proficient as her teacher, though she never made her feel that way on purpose.
Tam-eva had been found in a forgettable Ferelden village by an Ashaad, saved from the townspeople who thought her a witch for cultivating herbs and healing the sick. They had meant to kill her, but Ashaad had protected her.
"Under the Qun, a healer of the sick is protected and revered." He had told her after the villagers had dispersed. Tam-eva had begged him not to leave her there, and she had sworn her life to the Qun that very day. She had been taken to Denerim, and then across the Amaranthine Ocean; travelling for weeks with the Ashaad and his company until they made landfall on Par Vollen.
She studied the Qun there for two years, and was finally assigned a role under the Ariqun as Tamassran-eva with pale, beautiful Tamrassan as her tutor. When Tamassran was designated to accompany the Rasaan, advisor to the Arishok, Tam-eva was expected to follow and learn. It was her ninth year away from Par Vollen, and they had travelled to a great many places, but it was here they had lingered the longest.
Soft laughter pulled Tam-eva back from her thoughts, her eyes turning toward the pleasant sound. A group of five women, who looked only to be a few years younger than Tam-eva's twenty six years, sat in a loose circle only a few yards away. They appeared to be admiring a small gathering of two Arvaarad, their Saarebas, and a few Karasaad nearby. The men had just completed the morning drill, and now casually stood guard over the Tamassrans as they harvested various herbs outside of the protection of the palisade. Their skin gleamed with freshly painted vitaar, hair braided back in various styles to keep it from obstructing their line of sight if the time came to defend the encampment. Their horns were oiled and shone dully with polish whose recipe Tam-eva knew very well.
A familiar form came into view, approaching the group with a woven basket hooked on her arm. Pale braided hair reached below the small of her back and swayed with her hips as she moved. The eyes of the soldiers immediately found her, and a few of them acknowledged her presence with a slight nod. An Arvaarad addressed her, and ordered one of his saarebas forward to kneel obediently before her.
Tamassran approached the hulking form of the bronzed saarebas whose horns had been shorn and capped in fine gold. Even kneeling as he was, the saarebas was nearly eye level with the woman, but bowed his head in submission to her. The graceful woman's hand smoothed the pale hair between his horns consolingly, and she spoke to his keeper as she uncapped them. A small clay pot was produced from a hidden pocket, and Tamassran massaged it's contents into the grooves of the Saarebas's horns.
Tam-Eva had remembered preparing the salve this morning after they had dealt with bathing the bas. It was a special combination of comfrey, rosemary, cloves, and kelp mixed with melted beeswax until ideally brewed. Such a thing was necessary for the horned Qunari, more so for those whose horns were cut or damaged. If left unchecked, infections could easily take root and cause great harm.
The apprentice stood, brushing the dirt off the front of her tunic-dress before making her way toward her tutor, arm hooked around the handle of her basket. As she approached, she could hear the deep thrumming of the soldiers voices as they spoke quietly among themselves, but above all the Arvaarad's rolling tongue seemed to take up the most space. Tam-eva's jaw set almost immediately out of habit as she took her place by Tamassran's side; the scarlet-eyed Qunari had always seemed to garner her shyness to a certain degree.
"... You must apply this daily, Arvaarad, if this is to properly heal." Her qunlat was exemplary, but the Tamassran was born in Par Vollen and this was expected. She pressed the small clay pot into the qunari's massive hand and nodded a curt farewell before turning on her heel to follow the foot path back to the compound.
Tam-Eva followed obediently, struggling to keep up with the taller woman's long strides. It was then she noticed the troubled expression which cracked through the Tamassran's mask, and the younger woman clasped her arm in an attempt to comfort her.
The flames of many candles pressed against the darkness of the tent, but deep shadows still remained. A brass censer was lit and swung by it's keeper, filling the room with thick layers of frankincense.
You are my soul. She closed her eyes against the memory, but did not dare to let her emotions bleed through. This ritual was sacred, and it was vital she did not taint it with her despair. My Asala.
She had adorned herself according to tradition: wearing nothing but a headdress of gold chain and many tiny dangling bells, a delicate choker of metal filigree with hundreds of fine chains spanning from the collar to a belt high on her waist, as well as bracelets and anklets to match. Every movement was to be precise, to create a melody as she carried out the ceremony. She circled around a dais piled high with furs, on top of which a form of pale copper reclined. His horns were smooth and pale like polished alabaster: three sets of two, each smaller than the previous set, the points tipped with caps of metal the same color as his oiled skin. Her hips rolled, eliciting a cascade of chiming, and his golden eyes followed the movement.
The censer was hung from a hook above the dais, and the one named Asala moved onto the mound of furs, on her knees before the reclined Karasten. The moment seemed to hang suspended between them; her pale eyes locked with his. His features were angular, nearly draconic; high, pronounced cheekbones, a heavy brow from the massive set of horns, full lips parted to reveal slightly pointed teeth. His hair was the color of fresh cream, and fell in damp waves over the expanse of his robust chest.
She placed a hand on his thigh, and the limb stiffened beneath her fingertips as she moved up to straddle his narrow hips. His arousal throbbed against her toned belly, begging attention, but her hands moved up to cup his face. Her fingers caressed the sensitive spots behind his ears before moving to bury into his thick hair, evoking a purr from the qunari beneath her.
The Karasten was so much like him. Indeed, she had chosen purposefully; the Karasten was here for her comfort as much as for his, and she was in dire need after she had nearly lost her focus. The qunari's hands moved over the swell of her breasts, thumbs rubbing against her nipples, pulling Asala from her thoughts. Her eyes drifted closed, and she leaned into his touch, his hair brushing against her shoulder as his mouth found the sensitive spot on her neck.
She could not have him; it was taboo. The saarebas were assigned Tamassrans who were specially trained to resist their magic, this was known. Asala had been forbidden from it as she did not have the proper training, so she suffered to fill the emptiness he had left her with when he was bound and captured. He had been so careful.
A hand slid over her belly and pressed against her mound, a finger pressing against her entrance and a thumb rolling against her clitoris. The fawn-haired Tamassran moaned into the Karasten's massive shoulder, bearing down on him until the length of his finger slid deep inside her. A feral growl passed his lips, and she felt the sharpness of his teeth against her neck as he pulled his hand away to cup her backside and lift her up. One swift movement, and he was inside her; just the tip at first, his hips moving slowly as he pushed deeper with each stroke.
My Asala. It was as if he was there instead of the Karasten, and she moved against him feverishly, feeling whole once more. She was not within the confines of the camp, but deep in the wilds of the Frostback Basin; his body pressed against hers, his voice in her ears, the electricity which pulsed against her skin when he touched her causing her to shiver with pleasure. Her lips formed the shape of his name again and again: Asaar.
Far away from the Tamassran's tent, the one named Asaar jerked against his leash, gooseflesh rising as he heard a familiar voice whisper his name in the back of his mind.
"Asit tal-eb," Her voice was that of one who commanded the attention of all within earshot. "You are here now. What has happened before, it is not important. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun." The tiny golden bells on her bracelet sung as she made a gesture as if to dismiss their previous discussion.
The listener's eyes followed the movement, wondering what kind of cosmic joke or fever dream her mind was making her suffer through. The bracelet reminded her of the headdress she wore when she was at her campsite fanning the coals to send her plea by smoke to the Gods. The gentle sound reminded her of what she left behind, and she subconsciously moved to press her palm against her heart, her inner voice reciting a prayer.
She had been asking her how she came to be here, what her tattoos meant, what her affiliations were. Gwenyfar had answered sparingly: "I was attacked by wolves, and I woke up in an unfamiliar place. My tattoos are for protection"-the woman across from her had snorted at the irony of this, eyes fixed on the bandages which peaked out from the collar of her tunic dress-"I don't have any. I don't even know where I am."
"Come with me." The woman stood from the bench she had been sitting on, her height eclipsing Gwenyfar. It took only a few strides for her to cross the room and take up position beside the table on which a map was pinned. The smaller woman approached, her wrapped feet sliding against the smooth stone of the floor, and the other swept her hand over the map.
"This," Her finger tapped against the vellum, pointing to a landmark labelled in English as well as some other language. Gwenyfar leaned in to read the flowing script, her brows furrowing. The Frostback Basin. Nestled beside a river in a mountain valley was an ink mark stuck through with a pin, indicating the location of the camp. It wasn't labelled, but the topography seemed correct for where they were located. "... Is where we are now."
She felt the eyes of the other woman on her, watching her almost expectantly, and she looked up into her face. Her skin was unblemished as polished dark silver, her eyes were lined in kohl and glittered like flakes of gold in the lamplight, hair braided in a thick rope down her back. Small, elegant horns curved around her head in tines of ridged obsidian, accented by delicate bands of etched silver. She must have been nearly seven feet tall, and her height added to her aura of authority.
Gwenyfar shook her head, eyes sweeping the vast tracts of land filling the map. Ferelden. Orlais. The Free Marches. Tevinter Imperium. Par Vollen. She did not know any of these places. "You say you know nothing, that you are here by coincidence, but your timing is peculiar." The woman pressed. "That you should walk out of the Fade so close to where the scar had been torn into the sky. There could be demons riding with you."
There was a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, and Gwenyfar drew herself up to attention, sensing she was walking a fine line with the woman. "Truthfully, I do not know this place. This," She made a circular motion with her hand over the map. "I do not come from any place on this map. None of this is familiar to me."
"You come from uncharted lands?"
"Yes. I think so. I really…" Her voice was barely a whisper. "...I don't know."
The taller woman inhaled deeply, her mouth parting to pose another question, when the sound of a door opening interrupted the exchange.
"Rasaan. Shanedan."
"Shanedan, Arvaarad."
"You return without sending word. Has the Arishok and the Kithshok returned with you?" The paving stones seemed to vibrate as the warrior crossed the room, his sword and ornate control rod thumping against his thigh.
Gwenyfar's eyes widened, her vision filling with his towering form. His chest was painted with angular markings, shoulders crested with heavy leather pauldrons, face masked by a slotted helmet which hooked around his thick black horns. His pale hair was worn in a half-braid and accented, like his horns, with narrow clasps of gold bejewelled with tiny garnets. His ears were pierced with bands likewise accented with garnet, flashing like drops of blood in the light. It was he who had pulled her from the river and brought her back to the encampment.
"Peace. We must deal with the bas first." The horned woman named Rasaan held up her hand to halt the Arvaarad's words, and it was clear to Gwenyfar that she was the higher authority in this exchange, despite not knowing the words they spoke. "I have spoken to her at length. She confirms everything the Tamassrans have reported to me, though she refuses to tell me where she comes from…"
The Rasaan's eyes swept over the Arvaarad's large frame, her pale brows drawing together. "... She smells of fear and magic. She seems innocent enough… Certainly too soft in the middle to be a spy or warrior from Orlais or Tevinter. But we cannot be careless. She must be dealt with."
Gwenyfar looked from one to the other, her neck straining. The Arvaarad's deep scarlet eyes glinted behind the slits in his helmet, dropping to capture her mossy gaze and hold it. He spoke to his superior, but did not break eye contact with the smaller woman, his voice deep and smooth and dangerous.
"She is under my care, Rasaan."
The woman he addressed leaned against the map table, her long nails clicking against the stained surface as she considered him thoughtfully. Gwenyfar bristled, her face reddening as she realized that she was the topic of their conversation. Her hands clenched at her sides, wringing a handful of the fabric of her dress. The words rolled over her tongue before she could stop them, her heart beating a rapid rhythm in her chest. "I do not wish to impose… I know I have been a burden. I… I can leave here, if you wish it."
Gwenyfar's words were met with stares and silence. Flustered, she noted that she had intruded, and bobbed her head in the best show of courtesy she could manage, particularly aware of the sharp gaze of the Arvaarad scanning her features. She shifted her weight and stepped back from the two, her muscles in her abdomen aching from holding her breath for so long.
A hand was on her arm before she was able to take another step, firmly keeping her where she stood. A shiver ran up her spine as her eyes followed the length of a painted arm to the concealed visage of the horned soldier. His head tilted, eyes lost behind the darkness of his helmet. She got the feeling she had to wait to be dismissed by the Rasaan.
"That will not be permitted, human bas. You are still injured." Rasaan purred, her cat-like eyes dancing in the candlelight. "You can stay here. If you are worried about your usefulness, you can help the Tamassrans collect herbs."
"She is not viddathari." The Arvaarad interjected, his voice unreadable. "She cannot know what would be expected of her."
The Rasaan turned her gaze on the Mage-keeper. "Her role cannot be decided as it would be in Par Vollen. She will be used as needed here, as the Qun demands it. Asit tal-eb."
The dismissal was clear in the tone of her voice, and the Arvaarad unceremoniously turned toward the door, his hand dropping from Gwenyfar's arm. She moved to follow him, pausing for a moment to look back at the horned woman. Her golden eyes seemed to look through her, directly at her crux, and it took all of her strength to turn away from her again.
Asit Tal-Eb = It is to be
Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun = The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless
Shanedan = Common greeting... "I'll hear you"