The sun was a hair's breadth under the horizon when Sten and Amell arrived at the caravan's rallying point. Amell moved sluggishly, still sleepy. Her traveling cloak was pulled around her as she was imagining it was a blanket and that she was still in bed.
The rallying point was little more than a meadow on the outskirts of Cumberland. Wagons were already gathered there, pulled by docile-looking oxen. People were milling around in organized chaos, loading the wagons with their baggage, and they were a diverse group, to say the least. There were humans, elves and even several dwarves, but they seemed to come from every stratum of society; poor families in search of better lives, orphans and widows, craftsmen, traders, possibly even criminals, by the looks of some, all united only by a common destination (or at least a general direction).
"I think we're early," Amell grumbled unhappily.
"We aren't," Sten replied.
A few moments later, someone whistled, a prolonged and resounding sound that must have come from long practice and almost blew Amell's eardrums out.
The origin of this sound was a dour-looking man standing on top of a wagon driver's seat. He was unshaven, scruffily dressed and red-eyed, like he'd spent the past few days on a drinking binge and was now forced to finally come to work and by the Maker, he was going to resent everyone for it. But most strangely, perhaps, was his misshapen hat, which was brown and looked like nothing much at all; in fact, the only indication it was a hat at all was the fact that he was wearing it on his head.
"A'ight, you lot, I hope you're packed, 'cause we're leaving in five minutes," he groused unhappily.
Protests started rising from the people gathered there. The man was unmoved.
"Yeah, yeah, all you people do is bitch. You don't like my terms, you can stay behind. But I call the shots here and I say we leave in five minutes."
With that, he hopped down from his perch and disappeared behind a wagon, probably to where his bottle of spirits was hidden.
"Who was that?" Amell asked.
"That was Drust, the leader of this caravan," Sten explained.
"He seems a bit... grouchy."
"I hadn't noticed."
"Because you're such a ray of sunshine yourself," she grinned slightly.
"I take it you are being facetious, kadan," he said, looking at her utterly serious.
"Mm. Very perceptive." The grin disappeared and she seemed to hesitate. Sten picked up on this.
"Were you going to say something?" he asked gently.
"No, just... you haven't called me that for days. Kadan. I rather missed the sound of it." And she looked up at him so earnest and sweet, that Sten was thrown for a moment. He realized that that assessment was right. He hadn't, ever since she healed him at the inn.
He wanted to explain, or at least to try, but before he could speak a word, they were interrupted.
"'Scuse me," a shaky voice calls from the side. The originator was a young woman with a strikingly white head covering. Wisps of black hair escaped the scarf and fell over her forehead and her skin had an olive complexion, but her eyes were an almost luminous blue. Her hand were calloused and rough and they were currently busy wringing the material of her brown dress nervously. "'Scuse me, but if you have baggage, our wagon's not very full yet. You could come and... umm... I mean, there's space, if you don't want to carry it all the way..."
She trailed off, looking to the ground.
"Thank you," Amell said cheerily. "Lead the way."
The woman nodded silently and motioned for them to follow.
"She's nice," Amell whispered towards Sten.
"She desires our protection. It is the only reason she is doing us such a favor," Sten said impassably.
"I still think she's nice," Amell muttered rebelliously.
"As you wish."
Amell glanced at him, but there were still times when could not tell if Sten was being serious or not.
* * *
The woman's name was Sorrel. She was accompanied by her much younger brother, Dyson, a lad that could not have been older than thirteen, and they were apparently off to seek their fortune in Nevarra, where they'd heard there was a shortage of working hands on the orchards.
Amell discovered all this while sitting next to her in the driver's seat. Despite her initial shyness, the woman seemed starved for company and talked almost without pause. Amell, for her part, was content not to have to walk, even though the caravan was quite slow-paced, but the constant chatter prevented her from dozing off. Not that she minded much; Sorrel was a fount of knowledge, apparently.
"Drust travels this route constantly, back and forth. He makes a great deal of money out of it," Sorrel had explained. "He's a caravan leader by profession. There aren't many left who uphold the old traditions, anymore, and I suppose he isn't much, either. He's a drunk and he overcharges even the poorest travelers. But he has experience in these matters. He's never lost a wagon, you know." That last remark was tinged with admiration. "It cost us a lot to be able to come along with the caravan," she added in a lower tone of voice.
"Why are you leaving Cumberland?" Amell asked, taking advantage of the slight lull in conversation.
A flash of panic passed over Sorrel's face.
"No reason, really. It was time to move on."
"Are you originally from Cumberland?" Amell queried, suddenly made curious.
"You talk a great deal, don't you?" Sorrel snapped.
Amell blinked, but did not point out that it had been Sorrel doing most of the talking up until now. She did not prod any further, either. She knew how it was to be forced to leave one's home under less than fortunate circumstances.
There was a tense silence for a while, but Sorrel could not resist for long.
"Have you ever been on a caravan?" the woman asked sedately.
"No."
"Then you don't know about the celebration," she concluded.
"No, I most definitely don't know about any celebration," Amell confirmed.
"Well, here's how it goes," Sorrel started explaining cheerfully. "After the first day of travel, if no harm befalls the caravan, after we set camp, we drink mead and give thanks to Abeona."
"...Abeona?"
"The patron spirit of roads, protector of travelers. Do you not know of patron spirits where you come from?" Sorrel asked, puzzled.
"I'm from Ferelden and I was... raised Andrastian," Amell explained, trying not to sound bitter about it. She'd never been religiously inclined, especially when said religion was used as little more than a vehicle for guilt, but the teachings of the Chantry were very familiar to her and hard to forget.
"Oh, we're good Andrastians as well, miss. But around these parts, we also believe in spirits."
"I'm not saying spirits don't exist," Amell shrugged. "Far from it. But they stay in the Fade, for the most part. It's unusual for them to take an interest in things on this side of the Veil."
"I don't believe that," Sorrel shook her head. "I think-- I think there are demons in the Fade, and they're bad, but there are also spirits, good spirits that try to help mortals."
It seemed like an overly simplistic belief to Amell, but then, there was Wynne's case. And while with Wynne it was an exception rather than a rule, it was still possible that such beliefs as Sorrel's rose from similar exceptions. How many such incidents would it have taken for faith to find its roots? Two? Three? Amell was in no position to correct Sorrel, especially since she lacked all the facts. But it made for an interesting research topic and the mage made note of it for the future.
"So, you were saying something about a celebration," Amell reminded.
"Ah, yes." Sorrel grinned. "On the first night, we honor Abeona. We sing, we dance, we drink, until midnight. Then we sacrifice three white rabbits and three white doves to her."
"And?"
"And that's it. We go to sleep and prepare for another day on the road, confident in her protection," Sorrel shrugged.
"What an interesting custom," Amell remarked.
"You have nothing similar where you come from?"
"If we did, I imagine the Chantry would put a swift stop to it," Amell mused. It sounded maybe a bit too close to blood magic, even though no mages were involved, from the sound of it.
"The Chantry around these parts tried once to stop this 'spirit worship', as they called it. They were not met with much success, however. Now they mostly ignore it."
"I imagine it's an old tradition?"
"Since before the Chantry was even founded, I hear," Sorrel nodded. "A dear tradition, at that."
"And there are many of such spirits?"
"Oh, there are dozens!"
And Sorrel started rattling off a long list of names and attributes and patronages. Amell took it all in with fascination.
---
Author's note: Abeona is based on the Roman goddess of the same name, a protector of departures and arrivals (though occasionally, her sister Adeona protected arrivals), as well as all kinds of human movement (including a child's first steps). The Romans were a practical lot and had gods for literally all aspects of life. In fact, before the collapse of the Roman Empire, their pantheon numbered over 30,000 gods, most of which were taken from the peoples they conquered. They obviously applied the principle of "waste not, want not" to religion.
Incidentally, mythology used to be a hobby of mine.