Faith had always been Isolde’s antidote to fear. Fear was for those without trust in the All-Mother, who let the threat of earthly suffering pull them from their path. Trust in her Mother was what Isolde had in spades. She felt the warmth of her arms wrapped around her through her days and nights, finding safety there that carried her through the darkest nights and most violent storms. The spirits of her ancestors were always close enough that she could hear the ripple of their voices if she listened.

But things were different in Nevermere. The spirits of her ancestors were but a distant echo, the warmth of the All-Mother not enough to banish the chill of the wind off the sea. And, for the first time, Isolde felt the creep of fear sinking in.

The same powers of observation that had made her a valuable Witch Doctor served her now. Her light eyes tracked over each twisted display as if she were memorizing the exact place of every object; the exact contours of every face. Isolde idly wondered whether the demonstrations had been staged to scare her, but decided that it didn’t much matter. Their tools were those of the flesh it would seem, and Isolde would endure whatever it was that came.

The eyes of those they passed lingered at the novelty of her presence. Even in shackles, the Cambrian’s chin was held high. She lifted her shoulders back to assume her full, statuesque height and her blonde hair fell about her shoulders. When they took her into a room of smooth stone, Isolde’s light eyes slowly tracked across it to find nothing of interest, coming to rest at last on the manicured man that had stood at the king’s side. Isolde looked down at him with vague, condescending interest and a slight smile.

The once Chieftess would not speak first. She seldom did. Instead, she picked apart the man with her eyes as if disassembling him to see how he ticked.

One couldn't blame a dog for barking and howling; for humping the air out of instinct or pissing to mark its territory. Neither did she feel anger or embarrassment as Lord Petyr's gaze lingered on her womanly attributes. Men were lesser beings, little more than beasts, and could not be expected to act like anything other than what they were. Her calm certainty endured, though whatever interest she showed at first was fading quickly to flatness. She'd keep silent as long as was necessary, taking no notice of the guards. When Cam spoke, Isolde's lips pulled ever so slightly into a warmer smile.

"Your king characterizes my cleansing as an 'assault on his citizens'," Isolde said instructively. She did not emphasize the word 'your' -- far too heavy-handed for her taste -- but it stood out sorely nonetheless. "But when a doctor cuts out infection to save a patient's life, one does not accuse them of violence. They must do harm to heal, and so must I mark my daughters to cleanse them. But your king does not see the rot so of course he only sees violence done." Isolde shook her head gently. "I suppose I cannot fault him for that."

Firm, competent hands: the hands of a king, no doubt. The words reeked of oppressive masculinity. Even if a woman were installed in her place, her hands would not be her own. The boy king had, no doubt, put a puppet where the priestess should be. Through her, he'd seek to twist the strength and power of Cambrian women to the obedience and propriety they expected of their own. No woman had ever taken up those qualities on their own; instead, they were laid like a yolk upon her shoulders or slapped around her throat like the collar Isolde now wore. Just because Cambira couldn't see it didn't mean it wasn't closing around their necks.

But Isolde knew something that they did not. Despite their estrangement, Isolde believed Wren would save them. She was the liberator that Isolde had prophesied, and even if the once witch doctor was not among those saved, the true Cambria would rise once again.

It was only a matter of time.

"Perhaps some of my daughters will curse my name," Isolde entertained the thought with the same relentless serenity, "But that is the burden every mother must carry: that she might live to see her daughters curse her name. It is one I am happy to bear, for one day soon, they will taste the poison in your well. They will spit out the water and make for the All-Mother's Spring. And on that day of homecoming, no collar will keep me. In life or in death, I will ride with them."

Just as the Nevermrean studied, the Cambrian watched his every move with similar—though concealed—fixation. Though a holy woman by trade, Isolde was a trained warrior the same as every daughter of Cambria. Knowing one’s enemy, looking for weaknesses…it was an instinct as powerful as any. But Isolde’s frustration at her limitations grew with every passing moment. There was no pulling on her enhanced hearing; no listening to his heartbeat to detect fear or lies as she’d grown accustomed to. It was a feeling akin to sparring with one arm tied behind your back.

Isolde noticed the return to his flippant air, but would not be diminished by it. She watched on, the smile still curling gently at the corners of her mouth.

“How strange it is,” Isolde mused, her audience unspecific though it was only Cam who sat in front of her, “That a society as civilized as you claim it to be forces medicine down the throats of its own people. For those were witches suffering in your halls, were they not?” Her smile grew, “I wonder how much respect and gratitude they feel for their kingdom. And to think...” Isolde's low laugh rippled between them, "It is I who stands accused of assaulting Nevermere's citizens. I rather think on that charge you and I should be sharing a cell."

Isolde, for the first time since entering the room, sharpened with a new curiosity and—despite the careful control of her demeanor—a flicker of visible surprise. The argument that Cam so casually tossed between them was different than what she’d come to expect from Nevermere. From the outside, witch magic seemed a source of pride, their greatest tool of subjugation—but perhaps that too was a lie. Maybe it was as she’d once posed to Ambassador Prowze: the women of Nevermere and their magic were puppets to the man they served.

Or perhaps, men.

For the first time, Isolde pitied the witches that had infested her homeland. The sentiment was fleeting, however.

“Well then,” Isolde said, eyebrows raised as she took a step forward to tower over him (unless stopped), “If it is my sex and not my culture that you blame, I’m comforted to know that here, I will be among sisters.”