That she had some small portion of non-Celt blood mattered not at all.    She was as much a product of the Old Way as the most pure blooded resident of the village called Tèarmann, whose name meant 'protection,' or more literally, 'the process of keeping safe.'  It was an altogether apt name for this place she knew as home.   One not referring so much to physical security -- though it was one of the safer places in that regard, amidst this untamed region --  as it did to a security of the spirit.  Of what was natural, and sacred.<br/><br/>So-called civilization might move inexorably forward, in its vaunted and vaulting 'progress'...but places such as Tèarmann were created to preserve wisdom and a way of life that was precious, and none diminished by any passing of time.    The turn of the seasons -- the perpetual cycle of birth, growth, decline, death, rebirth --    was real, and natural.  Man's idea of time, as measured by calendar --  not so much.  More a misconceived, misused illusion, than fundamental facet of life.<br/><br/>Life, in any case, was rather rampant within the Pennines.   There were more species of fauna  and flora proliferating here than even the most learned of Northumbrian scholars had, or likely ever would, put to record.   And here that abundant life existed mostly in its proper, natural hierarchy:  undisturbed, save by those actions and arts aimed at the reduction, or prevention, of suffering.  Yet some suffering, of course, was inevitable.  For life was bound inextricably with its shadow-cousin, pain.    It was the price sometime paid for failure to heed or to understand the inviolable laws of life.<br/><br/>For much of her one score and two summers of life, Morveya had been a student of those laws.   One of Tèarmann's herbalers, it was her responsibility to apply her understanding of them to the benefit of this blessed community.   She had already treated a goodly amount of illness and injury, in the seasons that followed the completion of her apprenticeship.   More than a few had given thanks for saving their life, or their livelihood, or that of a loved one.     Which she was so thankful to be able to do. She had studied and trained hard to develop her skill, so to be as prepared as possible to treat the broadest number of afflictions and conditions.    It was ever gratifying when it paid off.<br/><br/>Now, in her short tenure, Morveya had never treated any person who wasn't a part of the Celt communities of the Pennines.  But today -- this was about to change.<br/><br/>It had all began routinely enough...following along the well known course of the Itouna river, to obtain more of a particular root much useful in reducing fever.   This near to Tèarmann, she felt no concern at going alone --   well, alone save for Bua, the spirited, red sorrel mare whose mane was as fair as her own long locks.  But then certain sounds had begun to intrude upon the soft, susurrating harmony sung by the river.    Harsh sounds, and desperate sounds, that even though her hearing was poor in one ear, she had no trouble discerning at distance.<br/><br/>A horse had gone down in the river, she was rather certain of that.   Which could only mean there was a rider involved, too -- for no horse would be so witless all on its own.   Likely some foolish youth --  Scaga, once again?   That lad was forever finding trouble, or making it, when there was none to be found...<br/><br/>Morveya urged her steed to as much of a gallop as was safe here;  well recognizing that if she broke her neck or skull en route, not much aiding would take place.  But Bua knew this area, this trail, quite well, and went sure-footedly, avoiding any mishaps.  Until Morveya's sea-gray eyes were able to confirm what she was hearing.<br/><br/>It wasn't Scaga.   Nor anyone she cared about, or knew, or would want to know.   It was one of<span style="font-style: italic">them</span>.  His armor left little doubt.   As well as crushed any chance of saving his life.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Hopeless!</span>her mind pounded at her --   for the man, and his poor horse.  She could no more pull either from the Itouna's embrace than she could change bark into silver!  Nothing short of a miracle could spare these lives, she knew.    A<span style="font-style: italic">miracle... </span><br/><br/>She didn't think about it;  but within an instant, she had tugged the heirloom pendant free from within her bodice, and whispered an impromptu, earnest prayer to the river-goddess<span style="font-style: italic">Acionna</span>for aid;  backed by the deep affinity she had with these waters.<br/><br/>She was not exactly a stranger to those aspects of existence some would deem the occult, or the supernatural.  But, what occurred next, was well beyond anything she could have anticipated, or had ever experienced in her life.    So much so that she was left momentarily wide-eyed and gape-jawed after it was over, before she realized it would yet fall to her to get the man breathing, again.  Fortunately, after she had so done, a hunters' party was returning along the river, and were able to aid her in transporting him back to her residence.   Oh, they were not altogether happy about taking this sodden, armored outsider back home with them.   But something in Morveya's solemn, resolved demeanor served to convince them.<br/><br/>* * * * * * * * * * * *<br/><br/>He was stirring, at last.  His eyes were bleary, and red. But slowly began to focus with sense on his surroundings.    That was good.  She didn't think the blow to his skull serious enough to incur lasting harm.   But one never knew quite for certain, until they came out of it, and demonstrated their faculties.<br/><br/>"Do not worry," she soothed in a soft, even tone, standing some five feet from the bed.  "You are somewhere safe, and mending.   Your head surely pains you --  but you are a very fortunate man, for all that.  Do my words make sense to you?  Nod, if you can, and speech is at all difficult."