[ This place is not without its warriors, to her relief - they may be trundled here with all the rest, but there are men among them that have clearly swung swords and drawn blood. Her eyes dip to the man propped listlessly against the stone, and she spends but a moment appraising him. Tall, crafted with muscle, and by the way he has been roughly brought to heel by their captors, in possession of a hostile spirit. He will be one to keep her eye on, for what she assumes must be his capable hand and productive aggression.

She must slip nearer to catch his words, low and soft as they are spoken, but his is not the tone of one defeated. It is rather, she thinks, the voice of one who is only simmering. ]

My understanding of religion is that the call for souls usually means the priests simply want to burn troublesome bodies.

[ But is this a mad cult of religious zeal they have fallen into? And what crime could she possibly have committed that they would know anything of? There is no guilt that any of these soldiers could read on her body. Her lips press into a thin line, more protective of her body than her soul, if one or the other stands to be destroyed.

She rests down gently on her knees beside the seated man, glancing at his bound wrists. What damage might he do unbound? Her next question, her most urgent, comes quietly. She is worried less for the soul of anyone corralled into these ruins than she is over who might be pressed into her own service. ]

Who do you fight for?