Zevran stood behind the Warden's right shoulder, as close as a lover. One more step and she would have been able to feel his breath on her neck. She smelled of woodsmoke and leather and oiled steel and, unexpectedly, lavender. For three days now, he had watched the wardens and their companions make their way toward his carefully devised ambush, but he had not been able to get this close to any of the party until this morning's fight with a group of bandits had left the mabari warhound badly injured. Now, with the great beast lying by the campfire, swathed from nose to tail in bandages and tended by the matronly old mage, the dog's mistress took her watch alone, and Zevran took full advantage of this opportunity to study his mark more closely. Her soft, shoulder-length hair looked black in the darkness of the nighttime forest, but he knew that in a few hours the rising sun would strike reddish fire from the dark auburn tresses. Her pale skin, too seemed colorless without the warmth of the sun's light. The only color and movement that proved she was not some eerily lifelike statue carved out of moonbeams and darkness came from her startlingly blue eyes, wide and alert, searching the trees in vain for the death that stood by her side, unnoticed.
A low growl sounded from the direction of the camp, and the warden turned to see her dog limping toward her, still heavily bandaged, a warning rumbling in his throat.
"What is it, 'Ulf?" she asked gently, reaching down to ruffle the animal's ears. "You smell something?"
The dog responded with an odd, growling whine that sounded almost like words, and the warden smiled.
"Well then you probably scared whatever it was away, good dog," she knelt and kissed the mabari's broad, furry forehead. "Now go lay back down. You need your rest, and if you don't get it Wynne is going to lecture me mercilessly and possibly bathe you."
At the mention of a bath, the dog gave a short, alarmed, "Whuf!" and, after checking again to make sure the source of the strange, foreign scent was really gone, hop-limped back to the fireside as fast as his injured limbs would carry him.
In his own silent, fireless camp that night, Zevran's dreams were full of shining blue eyes and the smell of lavender.