The mojo woman kneels by the fallen Sara Belle. Resting the unconscious head on a pillow, she takes the medallion from Sara Belle's hand and stands with the others.
The thin vellum the captain held to the light made her heart soar. It showed an ornate script that she felt in the very fiber of her ancient soul.
The kestrel screeched and flapped it's wings on her shoulder. It too remembered the days when they ran the glen together, hunting with the hound, running with the stallion. She could once again catch the faint smell of the heather in her hair, and it brought with it a sigh.
The paper glowed in the captains hand, and the setting sun through the porthole of the Albert Hansell lit a curious set of watermarks in it.
There appeared to be a mark for every medallion in the room. From the largest medallion down to the dainty piece that Ms. Sara Belle had clutched in her small white hand.