What they say about redheads and their temper is unbelievably far off the mark. In the case of Tamsin, it would be more accurate to state that redheads got so much fire out in their hair, they had no temper left to fight with. Of course, stereotypes don't really matter, and certainly Miss Willoughby had no thoughts on the subject at all. What she did care about was the war. Two nations had been warring for generations, and she was fairly certain that no one quite knew why anymore. All she knew (and was permitted to know) was that the lives of the ones she loved depended on her cooperating. At the age of thirteen, the gifted among them had been plucked from ordinary schools and placed in specialised academies, where soldiers were trained. The average lifespan of these was little over the mid twenties mark, which was where Tamsin came in. Her healing abilities did at least enable her to avoid actually fighting, something that had never sat well with her. There had of course been ocassions, and those haunted her. There was often a touch of guilt in those usually strong green eyes, though in her psychological health interviews Tamsin did her best to skate over these cracks. Healers were natural targets for the enemy, and few and far between, and so it was paramount that the twenty-three year old remained in action for as long as she was physically capable. Unfortunately for her, during one skirmish into enemy territory, heavy casualties had been recorrded. During the mayhem that had ensued, the healer had been incapacitated by the age old technique of a crack to the head. Upon waking, Tamsin found herself in a dingy room, a cramp in her neck where she had been laying oddly, and a throbbing headache. She made no attempt to fix this. The sensible woman was not the type to waste her talent on minor inconveniences. Right now she only needed to focus on attempting to negotiate her release. "Hello? Is anyone there?" Making contact was the first step.