The last of the cookfires are buried under, their rich charcoal-smells dissolving slowly into the smell of horses, of dust and hay stirred for livery driven out, of strange spices and skins from distant regions.  Deirdre's respected position, even to those not of her culture, earns her offers of fruit, clay jars of strange spices and oils, dried bouquets of flowers here and there.  Little girls and boys scurry about in sandals and bare-feet alike, laughing, daring each other to draw nearer, to speak to the statuesque, flame-haired warrior.  None take up the offer, save to call out questions in the common tongue with a variety of regional accents, "have you ever fought a..." "You'll drive away bandits for certain..." "... never seen a woman so tall!"  until chiding parents or older siblings, their voices hissing correctively, shooed them away to play elsewhere, then bowed out respectfully, humbly before the paladin, though their eyes try to linger at her exquisite features, her pristine armor.  And she knows, somehow, that behind their eyes is the same wonder as in the children, the same mingled fear and fascination.<br/><br/><br/>Dierdre eases into the gap between two wagon cars, her discerning eyes checking for hitchers, vermin, or structural weakness.  The larger car is perhaps twelve feet long, eight feet wide, its sides like shipwales once painted a gaudy red have long since faded to chipping, brownish-umber by long roads and years, the wheels' ornate-painted spokes mismatched from a dozen trade-offs and roadside repairs.  Some sort of lantern burns from within, making the door's edges pale-gold lines against the dark hulk of the wagon.  There's a sound, low and whispering like wind through the Ri Canyon, assuming a vocalized tone like a shadow creeping from that canyon at dusk, then spreading out from the wagon, resonating, as if no walls separated the singer from the world.  Bustling passengers stop in their tracks, turn to look a the wood shakes of the wagon's side.  Some make signs of their faiths, others stare on distantly, as if the voice called up some strange memory forgotten to time.  The voice continues, high, feminine now, musical and singing in the Elven tongue.<br/><br/>Within the paladin's heart, some recognition stirs; something about the voice-- different now, certainly... but there's no mistaking it-- it has to be Nadya's.<br/><br/>A half-dozen eyes appear in the shadows; dusky-skinned traveling guard, those shadow-lurkers who protect the travelers' leaders and treasures.  They watch Deirdre, unflinching, as the song continues.