He was not a member of the Beresaad, so he did not fight. The antaam work was not his, so he only watched. He watched as the basra killed his kadan, killed the friends and colleagues he had formed over the years as their Taarbas. For a Viddathari, a convert to the Qun, the Elven man had been honored indeed when he was given the title and job of Taarbas, the collector of the weapons of fallen Qunari. Is was the belief of his new people that the weapons warriors wielded were their asala, or soul. To lose it would mean to be less than bas, to be less than a thing.
However, Qunari afforded no special rights to their dead. Their asala a weapon may be to a Qunari, but it could be reused, reforged. It could be the soul of another warrior, and serve him far better. The Qunari were not wasteful. He was grateful for that. If they hadn't been as they were, he would have been dead many years ago. He would not be here, watching his friends, his kadan, die. He would not be certain. He would not be Qunari.
The battle was over. The Beresaad warriors who had not fallen were regrouping, moving in formation back to where he stood. As they retreated from the battlefield, he approached, amongst a few other Taarbas. They moved quietly and quickly through the dead on the battlefield, collecting the asala of the fallen warriors. No, he corrected himself. Not asala. They were no longer alive. They were kas, just weapons. He was a collector of kas, not asala.
The Taarbas moved like ghosts over the dead, picking up weapons and ignoring the grunts and moans of the dying Ferelden mercenaries. The bas had stolen something from the Arishok that had been leading his Beresaad through the Free Marches, and he had been sent with a small party to hunt them down. Bring back what they took. Their job was complete, now. The children had been punished and what had been stolen had been retrieved. All that was left was taking the kas from the dead and returning to the Arishok.
His path took him nearer to the woods of the Korcari Wilds, a place he had remembered from his days before he found the Qun. Saarebas were said to run freely in the woods, taken by the demons and wanting to corrupt all. He tried to keep a wide berth, but a few fallen brothers had taken the fight near the trees. He approached with a level of trepidation.
However, Qunari afforded no special rights to their dead. Their asala a weapon may be to a Qunari, but it could be reused, reforged. It could be the soul of another warrior, and serve him far better. The Qunari were not wasteful. He was grateful for that. If they hadn't been as they were, he would have been dead many years ago. He would not be here, watching his friends, his kadan, die. He would not be certain. He would not be Qunari.
The battle was over. The Beresaad warriors who had not fallen were regrouping, moving in formation back to where he stood. As they retreated from the battlefield, he approached, amongst a few other Taarbas. They moved quietly and quickly through the dead on the battlefield, collecting the asala of the fallen warriors. No, he corrected himself. Not asala. They were no longer alive. They were kas, just weapons. He was a collector of kas, not asala.
The Taarbas moved like ghosts over the dead, picking up weapons and ignoring the grunts and moans of the dying Ferelden mercenaries. The bas had stolen something from the Arishok that had been leading his Beresaad through the Free Marches, and he had been sent with a small party to hunt them down. Bring back what they took. Their job was complete, now. The children had been punished and what had been stolen had been retrieved. All that was left was taking the kas from the dead and returning to the Arishok.
His path took him nearer to the woods of the Korcari Wilds, a place he had remembered from his days before he found the Qun. Saarebas were said to run freely in the woods, taken by the demons and wanting to corrupt all. He tried to keep a wide berth, but a few fallen brothers had taken the fight near the trees. He approached with a level of trepidation.