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Lace was familiar with all the sounds of the night. She even knew how those sounds differed from place to place. The night birds of Orlais were not the same as those of Arlathan. The soft song of creek and stream that usually lulled her to sleep here in Ferelden were replaced in the Hissing Wastes by the dry susurration of wind-driven sand.
At the moment, though, she rather wished for silence. The watery chuckle of the brook below their campsite might be drowning out other sounds. A sneaking slither, perhaps. A foot dragging in the dust. The creak of joints.
She curled a little more tightly into her blanket.
She could hear Emmrich’s muffled snores well enough; that sound, at least, was a comfort. Their tents were only a few paces apart, his looking palatial next to her simple scout’s pitch. She pictured him lying there with his too-many pillows, a stack of books beside his cot like a nightstand. He had even brought an umbrella. She scoffed. The man was ridiculous.
And so was that story he’d told over the campfire. Ridiculous. No one believed that sort of thing. Least of all Lace Harding. There had been long years when she’d slept under the stars more nights than she’d slept under a roof, and she’d never yet been taken by a... by a... what had he called it?
A bone-collector.
She shivered. It had been stupid to ask a necromancer for a ghost story in the first place. But he’d looked so uncomfortable perched on his little stool, shifting positions every five minutes trying to keep the smoke out of his eyes and slapping at the mosquitos that buzzed around his perfectly-groomed head.
She’d told him sitting around the campfire was tradition. That it was half the fun of camping with friends. That the smell of woodsmoke would wash out in the laundry when they got back to the Lighthouse.
And then, idiot that she was, she’d asked for a story. A ghost story.
And he’d told one, hadn’t he? Told it cheerfully, as if he didn’t know ghost stories should be solemnly intoned like a dirge, not chirped like a robin at sunrise. She could still hear his voice in her mind.
“Many spirits hunger for a body, but most are content to wait their turn. Some may try to take matters into their own hands, but few are strong enough to have any effect upon the living. The bone-collector is one of those latter.”
Something moved outside the tent.
She froze, listening, but whatever it was moved off further into the woods. She sighed at herself. She was acting like a fool. Even so, she tucked her legs up deeper into her bedroll, edging as far as she could from the opening of the tent flap.
It started with the feet, he’d said.
“The creature begins at the toes, delicately extracting the phalanges one by one. The metatarsals follow, and then the tarsals. It tumbles those in its maw like misshapen dice before moving on to the long bones of the limb. There is no pain, I’m told, but it wouldn’t matter. Even if the victim were to wake at that point, they’d have no recourse. Can you imagine? All that boneless flesh where once were feet and legs. They could hardly run away.”
A little squeak escaped her throat and she scolded herself. She wasn’t a child, to be scared of the things that go bump in the night. She was Scout Lace Harding, and she’d fought darkspawn and battled demons and even stood her ground against gods. She wasn’t about to lose a night of sleep to a spooky story told by a man who brought a shaving kit into the woods.
Her resolve lasted perhaps ten minutes.
“Emmrich,” she hissed into the darkness. Waiting for a response, she felt the quiet stretch like a bowstring. She was about to call out again when she heard the man shift on his cot.
“Harding?” His voice was gravelly with sleep.
“Are you awake?”
“I believe so.” Emmrich cleared his throat. “Is something amiss?”
She sighed in relief and rolled onto her side so she could face in the direction of his tent.
“No, nothing’s wrong. I just...” What in Thedas was she supposed to tell him? She felt a flush of embarrassment rise to her cheeks. “I was just... wondering. About... well... about that thing. The one in the story. With the bones and all.”
“Yes?” Emmrich sounded puzzled, even through the walls of canvas between them.
Lace screwed her eyes shut and grimaced. “It’s... it isn’t real, right? It’s just a story. Make believe.”
There was a pause. “Oh my dear Harding. I didn’t mean to frighten you. No, you need not be concerned about the bone-collector.”
Lace put her arm over her eyes and exhaled. “Thank the Maker,” she muttered.
“Not here, at any rate.”
She froze. “What do you mean, not here?”
“Well, they’re only known in Nevarra.” He hesitated. “Though there are rumors from the Arbor Wilds--”
“Emmrich!”
“Oh come now, Harding. The Frostbacks are surely a sufficient barrier between us and the Wilds.”
She pulled the blanket over her head. “So they can’t cross mountains?”
“Well, that hasn’t really been thoroughly researched, but--”
“Just. Say. They can’t,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Ah. I see. Well... yes, then. I feel quite certain there are no bone-collectors on this side of the Frostbacks.”
She sighed and poked her head back out of her blankets. The night was no less dark than it had been a few minutes ago, but it was a familiar Fereldan darkness. The chatter of water over rock was a lullaby once more, and the sway of the tent flap at her feet was nothing more than the breeze.
“Thank you, Emmrich,” she murmured, just loudly enough to carry across the space between their tents.
“Sleep well, my dear.”