Thick smoke blackened the sky; the acrid smell of burnt flesh permeating the hot winds that swept the valley, or rather what remained of it. The battle had been swift, hovels destroyed, the fields burnt to ash, the forlorn victim of a battle between two countries it had never even heard of.  The groans of few fought against the silence, not many had survived, the initial charge having wiped out the village without a care for her inhabitants. Villages could be rebuilt, molded to fit the new empire, what care did the army of Kalderian have for these people. The true target of the Kalderian’s did not arrive soon enough to stop the massacre, forced to accept its enemy’s choice of battleground.  Their cavalry swept the Kalderian’s back, but the damage had been done, the battle lasted most of the day, and despite heavy Kalderian pike lines, the force had been pushed into retreat through the Black Pines. Now the village lay dead, only the faintest of laughter reaching her ears from the victorious army set upon her eastern hillside.<br/><br/>They waited, still as stone, long past the burn of cramp muscles, fear keeping them from action, the worry that the slightest sound would alert these foreigners. As night settled deep and the movement of soldiers picking through the debris had ceased she would look for escape, as a rabbit tip-toeing past a sleeping bear. Rosaline grew up with many brothers, brothers who taught her how to hunt and trap; it was these memories that kept her fear at bay and though her hands shook, she remained in control. Soot and blood plastered her hair to her neck and shoulders, her dress, if one could call it that anymore, weighed heavy with grim. Her eyes and throat burned from the smoke and heat that assaulted her in the small hole that she had been hiding. As she climbed her way out, pushing the heavy debris that had once been her home she found little respite, the smell of death still heavy, and though the wind brought some relief, it was a hot wind from the smoldering fields.  Darkness was her only friend, as her eyes swept the destruction, her father had been murdered early in the day; he had rushed out to give them time, to save his children. He saved her, but her brothers were foolish, the memory was so vivid, they had pushed her in the root cellar, but had ignored their father’s request that they stay with her. Perhaps, they had good intentions, to try and save their father, but there were so many of them, she had never seen so many people, so many weapons. ..<br/><br/>Rosaline shook her head, biting back her tears; she had to find a way out. Her gaze looked to the campfires, they were a good distance off and she had heard no movement for hours, perhaps the army had ceased looking for survivors. She did not know if they were friend or foe, long after the sound of battle had died she had heard them come, heard a few of her people scream, likely dragged from their hiding spots. What was done with them, she did not know. None of her village had been beyond the white river to the east and the Schengen Mountains hugged her village from the outside world. The Black Pines at their base almost encircled her village, leaving one entrance from the east. She vaguely remembered her father telling them to hide, “Make for the White River, cross it and find a town named Bristol”. There he said we could report what happened. Report to who? Braden had known, stupid boy, why didn’t he listen to father, he was the eldest; he was supposed to take care of them.<br/><br/>She realized she had been looking at her hands for some time, her nails biting into the palms with frustration. Crouched low over the shambles of her home would do nothing, she forced herself forward, picking over the debris slowly, trying to remain quiet while looking for her bow, or perhaps one of their hunting knives, something to protect herself with. Her dress kept snagging on the splintered timber, she ripped the hem so it would come to her knees now instead of properly to her ankles. She found it much easier to move, resuming her search; she doubted she would be lucky enough to find one of her little brother’s pants.<br/><br/>It felt like hours had passed in her search, but perhaps it was her nerves, wary about being captured. She tucked the knife she had found into her dress belt, her bow and quiver slung over her shoulders, she had only found a few arrows; she hoped she would not need them. She stood in the center of her village; she recognized nothing. Her eyes scanned the hills to the east; she had to cross the army lines to reach White River. Rather than stumbling through their camp like an ignorant child she moved south through her village, her leg stinging with each movement, but managing to be relatively quiet. She had no time to do more than tie a piece of her dress over the wound, she would have to address it later, but she did not think it serious. She would skirt the south eastern side of the village and try to sneak through the lower hills, at least there the black pines thinned, providing some cover, though not much due to the fires.  It was a gamble though, she did not know how far the army camp stretched, and the low hills were not visible from the village, a risk, but her best option.