You ride on together. In the days that follow, your companion barely speaks—even when you stop to allow your horses to rest or when you take turns keeping watch over each other while you are sleeping. You had imagined, when you first saw this woman in your visions, that she would be more personable than this.
Three days into your journey, you decide that you can bear it no longer. While your horses are drinking at a stream, you cry, "Enough of this blasted silence! If we are to follow this destiny together, I must at least know your name."
The stranger looks at you for a moment, turning your words over in her mind. "My name is Doria," she says at last. "And I do apologize for my silence. I confess, I have been fearful to speak at all, for I am filled with a rage most unbecoming of a mystic. The deeds of my companions have all but hollowed out my heart."