It was the shifting of the winds that brought her out of her thoughts. The one, known as a witch, looked up from where she was cooking. The shifting cold winds from the mountains smelled of death; foul and sour. Wychtleth, the daughter of a Helming and some Dunlending whore, knew something was wrong.
It had to be the outsider war-band. She did not go with them when they made their escape, but know she had to leave the safety of the walls to follow their footsteps. Her campfire was left as she went to gather her herbs, needles and twine. The red haired lass ran through the gates, ignoring the guards' calls. She was not afraid of death, but the winds told her that others might fear Bema's calling.
Wild in her appearance and thoughts, she was still noble to the few that proved their kindness. She would not forget them, running with haste of her wild-men blood. To their camp, the winds called.
