As the sun begin to give way to full morning, the villagers are out of their homes and starting their daily routines with a furious bustle...  She's seen nothing like this before in this small village, not in her time so far.  For days, she's been up before dawn hunting, cutting for sign, asking questions, searching desperately for any clue to the missing child they were so concerned over.  And though she didn't have family here, she felt akin to these people.  This morning, it was like home, when the fair was in town-- the morning chores couldn't be simply ignored, so the bare minimum would be done in order to be at the fair by noon.<br/><br/>Today, she is the traveling fair, and her death will be the main attraction.<br/><br/>Still so dark, the glow of tallow candles lights the housework before the sun even lit their rooms enough to see.  A few cookfires were lit out on the grass-- some would be vending stew, loaves, or skewered meat at the festivities, and they had to get an early start.<br/><br/>For a moment, in her despair, Amara considers that they might even tear down her corpse and divide her up for a few coins.  Somehow, she finds a weak laugh at the thought.<br/><br/>Then, voices... approaching, men's and women's, their voices hissing in argument, though they tried not to raise a commotion.  She recognized one of the elders-- one of the more bloodthirsty, one who'd detested her and murmured that she looked like a roadly whore even before Xavian had reared his serpent's head.<br/><br/>Torchlight... she clung to the grate, wishing for her armor, any protection from these people-- any wall between herself and them but the scratchy wool shirt-- big enough for an ogre-- that they'd hurled into the cell at her after they confiscated her possessions.<br/><br/>The working of metal against metal, the grind of unoiled hinges.  Torchlight spills into the main chamber of the bare stone watchtower they'd forged into a makeshift cell... "You'll see, we've followed the law to the letter--"<br/><br/>"You'd best have," answers a coal-black voice like warm molasses.  "If she's been harmed, the reparations will be most severe."  A younger man's voice than those of the elders, strangely familiar.<br/><br/>"You may speak to her from he--" She can see silhouettes, bout the torchlight is so bright and sudden--<br/><br/>The metal lattice of the cell door rattles.  "Open this lock."  No barking, nothing frivolous in the words... simply a command.<br/><br/>"I--"<br/><br/>Silence... the old man had expects to be berated, braces himself to be re-ordered to open the lock, so that at least he could give the illusion of protest.  However... the younger man had no need.  What he'd spoken need not be said again.<br/><br/>The old man immediately jangles some keys, fumbles a wrench-key into the sliding bolt, looses its catch, and throws the bolt wide.<br/><br/>Her eyes adjusting to the light, Amara makes out the figures.  Three councilmen with torches and lanterns, and a stranger-- a head taller than the elders, clad in traveling leathers of a scout, or a caravan guard, long, gray cloak skimming just above the ground as heavy boots carry him closer.  Short hair, a lean silhouette-- then, in the light, a glint of fierce, stern brown eyes, short-cropped black hair, and a fierce, handsome jawline.  In spite of its youth, the face bears the weight of age, of sincerity and jaded caution, but once the brown orbs fall upon<br/>Amara, they soften, the face eases its mask of determination, and from cull lips like sculpted clay comes a steady sigh.<br/><br/>"You're alive..."  he steps forward, reaching out one hand, its thick-leather gauntlet stretching up almost to the elbow.  "Amara, are you hurt?"<br/><br/>