It’s an impossible sight to take in all at once. Savages fill their mouths with fermented alcohol and spit at torches to create balls of flame. A frantic chorus of flutes and strings fill one corner of the tent hall like drunken banshees. There are the small groups engaged in games with high maiming potential, like the knife-throwing contingent. Blades seem to be a primary source of entertainment for Savages, in fact. Not three feet from where Evie stands, two surly women are stabbing the tip of daggers between their splayed-atop-the-table fingers, attempting to complete the sequence faster than the other while half a dozen men and women goad them on, betting on the outcome.

On the other side of the tent, thick curtains hide a quarter of the Revel’s space. From the other side Evie can hear moans and even jubilant screams. Solving their mystery is far from complicated, even for a new arrival like her. Young, supple men and women saunter among the tables full of Savages. They wear delicate chiffon, what little of it there is, and serve neither food nor drink. Some proposition, others merely wait and present and smile. Some Savages claim them for company at the feasting table while others haul them, sometimes over their shoulders, past the pleasure curtain.

Amidst the fire and music and flashes of steel and flesh on display, one sight does cut through the chaos. Evie first takes notice of the serving girl as she ferries flagons of rice wine and small cups between tables. She’s one of several dozen, clad in peasant’s wool and utterly unremarkable in every way, save one: Her eyes flash a deep purple in the light of the Revel torches, a color like that of dying violets.

Neither violets nor eyes of their color are often found in Crachian cities.

More than any of that, however, Evie sees something reflective in the girl, who can be only a year or two younger than her. The other servers have their eyes and their heads firmly mired in their task. You can see them anchored by it, keeping them grounded in a menial existence. The serving girl with the eyes like dying violets, however, is constantly looking beyond the simple actions of her hands and arms.

She’s more than she appears, or at least something different than she appears.

While it may go unnoticed by every other Savage, it’s an easy thing for Evie to recognize.

“Stake yourself a spot,” Spud-Bar bids her, straddling the end of one of the benches lining a feasting table.

Evie slides onto the bench on the other side of the table, reaching for two empty cups and a wine flagon.

“They do this before every battle?” she asks Spud-Bar, filling a cup for both of them.

“Every one. It’s what passes for mercy in the Savage Legion. It’s just about the only mercy.”