Sen tried to move quickly, keeping the hand that held her heirloom blade below the casual line of sight. Bright white objects stood out like sore thumbs against a backdrop of mud, canvas and faded armor; a few pairs of eyes flicked from the knife to her face, then fell away disinterestedly. She skirted around the edge of the canvas maze, easily finding the familiar, less-trafficked pathways. “Blend in to the background” wasn’t her modus operandi anymore, but it was still a useful tool for certain situations.<br/><br/>She would need to find a sheath, obviously. Verana’s… Sen wasn’t certain if it had been on the pyre with her, or if it had been lost on the field. One of the Sisters would surely have a bit of stiffened leather that could be re-shaped, provided they didn’t resent her bequeathed gift. The blonde woman had a suspicion that the Commander hadn’t consulted anyone before deciding where the blade should go. Her fingers tightened on the short handle. They could resent it if they wished; she would rather they didn’t, but she wasn’t going to change the situation. The Lieutenant’s face popped up in her head, prompting a curious mixture of sympathy and apprehension. Ausan’s opinion on the newest Sister with one of Verana’s weapons… Sen wasn’t sure what to predict. Before she could stop it, the face twisted into the pained, furious expression of hours ago. She slowed, suddenly feeling cold as the fresh memories flooded in...<br/><br/>… hugs and back-slaps of comradely celebration turned into the physical, raging torrent of the betrayed. His face, being turned to pulp, the agonizing hurt open on the Maiden’s own as her fists slammed again, and again, and again. Surely both Garth and Ausan deserved this. At some point, however, she was fairly sure that the disgraced lord simply… stopped being able to feel. Yet the fists kept coming, over, and over, just breaking the already broken; she had a good view, unfortunately.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Oil and a torch!</span><br/><br/>Sen stopped and leaned, her lower back pressing into a tall barrel, her empty hand coming up to cover her eyes and nose subconsciously. The smell. The smell and the screams. By all the Gods, present and above, current and forgotten, the<span style="font-style: italic">screams</span>. It was over quickly, the logical part of her knew, but it seemed to last for hours. She had been unable to move as the kindling around his feet swept beneath the hungry flames, her ears dulled to everything but the primal screams of agonizing death. Sen knew she had stopped breathing, but the smell leaked into her nose anyway, staining her senses, her clothes, her very self. And the people. The mob of people, Sisters, soldiers, knights, lords – the people who did<span style="font-style: italic">nothing</span>. There was no merciful blade to end Borim Garth; only the wrath of the betrayed and the searing fire that bubbled his flesh.<br/><br/>She had held it together well, in retrospect. In the battle. Hadn’t died, hadn’t screamed, hadn’t fled, hadn’t acted<span style="font-style: italic">too</span>overwhelmed (save for a few trouble spots). But when Borim’s screams ended, and the people dispersed, Sen walked stiffly to the nearest form of cover and expunged every ounce of bile and bread from her stomach.<br/><br/>She almost did so again right now, thankfully avoiding it with a few deep breaths and some very hard staring at a dim lantern on top of the adjacent barrel. She tried to tell herself it was over, but the smoke still burned the inside of her nose. Think of something else. There is more to be done. No time for nightmares. Move forward. Forward.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Why are you here?</span><br/><br/>Resilience flooded back through her shaky limbs, chasing away the bulk of the white in her face. Right. She had to… find a sheath. Right. She lifted her body from the supportive container, but had taken no more than three steps before a spray of small rocks and dirt showered against her exposed calves.<br/><br/>She spun, alarmed, only to face the tousled mop of golden locks belonging to Ausan’s squire. She had only seen the lad a few times, but Verana had identified him for Sen more than a week ago. His normally soft, almost feminine face was wracked with panic and shock, prompting her own expression to vault from introspective to concern.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Slow down, what are – Barth?”</span></span>Her eyes widened to saucers: Taken? No he wasn’t; she’d just seen him, spoken to him, minutes ago. He’d been alone, except for Haman. Even if someone came in after her, the giant knee-breaker would hardly just let him waltz off with the Commander. Sen’s hesitance was overridden as the young man grabbed her wrist in a surprisingly strong grasp and tried to haul her with him.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Settle – just – hang on now – Slow - ”</span></span><br/><br/>Finally, she dug in.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Hey! Where are you - ”</span></span><br/><br/>“B-back to Ausan! Come<span style="font-style: italic">on</span>,” he made to grab her wrist again, but Sen was quicker and kept her limbs away. The Lieutenant’s squire was in enough of a frenzy that there<span style="font-style: italic">had</span>to be some credence to it, regardless of the apparent speed with which it would have had to happen.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Who took him?”</span></span>she asked in a rush, leaning in close so they could speak in hurried whispers, her mismatched eyes intent on his face as her mind raced.<br/><br/>“They wore – Heart Guard! She, she said ‘Sergeant’ and he said ‘First’ and the other two didn’t say anything but, but they were all there and I<span style="font-style: italic">need to get back to Ausan</span>.”<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Anyone else?”</span></span><br/><br/>“What - ”<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Was anyone else there, did anyone else see?”</span></span><br/><br/>“N-no, we need to go back to… to… ”<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“You go, I’m going back!”</span></span>Sen’s voice had fallen to an urgent, hissing whisper, and she spun on her heel with the last words, ignoring Cameron’s faded stuttering and upwards-drifting stare. The result was that her forehead collided with Haman’s unyielding abdomen, ricocheting her backward into the effeminate squire, who had the reflexes to catch her by the upper arm and keep her from falling to her backside.<br/><br/>“You two look sort of worried.”<br/><br/>Sen realized that was probably a polite understatement, but regardless, Haman wasn’t the person to whom she felt comfortable spilling her guts. She was barely comfortable even possessing legs in his presence.<br/><br/>Cameron didn’t have her scruples. “They took the Prince! We have to save him!” he blurted out, wide eyes desperately latching on to the giant man’s face.<br/><br/>Haman barely looked surprised. “Who?”<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Heart Guard,”</span></span>Sen added quietly, taking her cue from him and regaining more than a modicum of composure. His single eye met her mismatched stare, and he sighed deeply. Sen was pretty sure several small oak trees bowed in the breeze it created.<br/><br/>“We have to go! We have to save him! We have to tell people!” Cam blurted, his voice rising to a level that accented his girlish features.<br/><br/>Haman shook his head. “Now is not the time for heroic rescues, or a force-wide search. Rash decisions could be… costly.”<br/><br/>Neither of them had to ask what he meant, but their eyes locked in like-minded comprehension for a moment before Sen responded.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Then what <span style="font-style: italic">is</span> it the time for? We can’t just – what are you doing.”</span></span><br/><br/>Haman had begun to yank some of the shirt beneath his thin mail upward from his belt, exposing a range of tanned midsection punctuated with a poorly-healed scar no less than six inches long. “Two years. Rogue merc troupe.” He shifted the exposed part of his stomach until it was almost dead center, revealing a wide stab-wound scar. “Four years. Assassins disguised as temple priests.” Finally, he turned, showing them his entire lower back; it was<span style="font-style: italic">covered</span>with a multitude of stabs, rakes, slashes, burns, bites, claw marks – Sen even saw signs of torture. “And all that? Tutar.”<br/><br/>He covered himself and turned to face the stares. “All of them, injuries taken to protect him. Swords I've jumped in front of, arrows I've stopped with nothing but flesh, year upon year of standing between him and teeth, claws, blades and fire so hot it would melt your eyes just to look upon it. That’s how long I’ve been doing this<span style="font-style: italic">exact</span>song and dance with him-<span style="font-style: italic">for</span>him. I will follow my Prince until the end of the world and beyond.” He leaned in, making very pointed eye-contact with Sen. She didn’t cower or look away, though; not this time. “So I’ll say what we ‘can’ and ‘can’t’ do for now,<span style="font-style: italic">m’lady</span>.” The last word finally made Sen wince and drop her stare to his goliath boots, out of shame more than any intimidation. Still, he was right. She knew it, he knew it, Cameron knew it.<br/><br/>“You’re sure?” the squire piped up, his eyes still desperate.<br/><br/>Haman nodded sagely. “By my life, I am sure.” He still stared at Sen as he said this, and after a moment, she gave a short nod. The giant man nodded back, his face unreadable, and left.<br/><br/>For a moment, the squire and the Sister were quiet. Finally, Cameron said, “She should still know…” he started backing up, a half-questioning gaze on Sen even as he made to continue his run.<br/><br/>She met the gaze over her shoulder.<span style="color: #80BFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Agreed.”</span></span><br/><br/>It was all the motivation he needed; the squire turned fully and bolted back to Ausan’s tent. Sen sighed, a resigned but determined expression setting across her features. She never thought there would be a day that she would voluntarily seek Haman out, but she wouldn’t be left standing here with no information and no solution in sight. Kneecaps be damned, he wasn’t leaving her in the dust with no other reassurance than “I promise”.<br/><br/>She slipped Verana’s white knife into the space between her shin-guard and the breeches that lined her outer calf, hoping it was as secure as it felt. Not quite a sheath, but time wasn’t on her side. Without another thought, she slunk off in the direction the giant had departed, keeping her senses on high alert. She didn’t fear for the Prince-Commander’s life (as much), but there was still something in her that gnawed and roiled.<br/><br/>Something was<span style="font-style: italic">off</span>.