On Patrol (Continued from Let's Go to the Prancing Pony)

[Naaramare]

The cut had hardly hurt at all when Naaramare had been so very terrified, but now, with fright worn off, it began to ache. She gratefully accepted Bethberry's poultice, pressing it against her neck and sighing in relief as some of the burning pain eased. In a slight daze--nothing serious, merely post-adrenal exhaustion--she put tea on and stared into the fire.

It took several moments for her to realize that their party was one short . . .where had Arcon got to? Frowning furiously, she gazed quickly around, not seeing him.

Sighing, she hoped he wasn't hurt. Males did that--got hurt in battle without even noticing, then ran off to scout when they shouldn't have, making their injury worse. She remembered--

Suddenly sitting up straight in an unconscious reaction, Naaramare pounced on the errant memory. Most of it fled, but out of it she got a face, a figure: tall, dark hair, grey eyes, and a sense of someone older than herself, but very important.

Not much, but more than she'd ever managed to seize before, and she yelped in triumph before she thought. Aghast, she clapped a hand to her mouth, embarrassed by her outburst.