Flora had made a truly terrible mistake. It could hardly be said that she had any reason to<i>anticipate </i>this sort of power from the coming legion of the Empire, and yet, she some how felt to blame for the choices she made, thinking their monotheistic dominion would meet its match against the gods of old, or at least that they'd never make their way to Eastborne. That was... she realized as fire fell from the sky and the roar of combat fell around her shop, naive, stupid, perhaps even blind. The very foundation of her shop rattled from the chaos going on, and while she could run, could fight perhaps, could take cover somewhere safer, she felt truly as though she had nowhere to go. While the militia had yet to come tearing her door down to discover her there, alone in the quaint little tea shop, she quivered and hid herself behind a set of sturdy shelves, only left to anticipate their arrival, praying to the gods she knew that that would not come to be. She had heard rumors, everyone had, of what the Empire did when it fell with its mighty forces upon a city or town... those rumors were honestly too horrific to believe until just then, and Flora was stifled to stillness by the thoughts of what she had heard, at the possibility that they could be true. Destruction, slavery, banishment, torture... Could all of it really be true? Could such depravity really be right at her door? She could hear screams, battle cries, the pounding sound of Eastborne's mighty, stone threshold being stormed and broken in, and yet she couldn't<i>move. </i><br/><br/>What was wrong with her? Of all times she ought to fight now right? For her new home, for the place she'd chosen to be her place of rest? What of the children who came into her shop looking for sugared lilacs? What of the baker who came in at mid day for a nice, warm cup of tea? What of the young women who came in for sweet, summer scents to dapple on their skin or men who shyly meandered in looking for their darling's favorite flowers? Shouldn't she fight for them, even if none of them had come to see that she was alive, that she had escaped? No one would, she realized... Since she'd settled in Eastborne she had made a pointed effort to keep everyone at arm's length and now... even with her mind full of familiar faces, she could think of no one to run to, no one to save her from the looming promise of all sorts of terror. Some pots in her shop came smashing to the ground as the building shook again, nearly rousing a yelp out of Flora if not for the fact that she clapped both of her hands over her mouth, curling into herself as though that alone would be enough to keep her safe. It wasn't-- it wouldn't be when the militia overtook Eastborne's troops and sacked the city... Would even her hand in the fray be enough to turn the tide?<br/><br/>Flora was only a wood elf, just one woman, not particularly strong but trained enough in combat and magic that she could at least hold her own, she had many times before she'd decided to peel herself away from her nomadic elders and take up a simpler, more domestic life... She had move to Eastborne with the hope to settle herself in and eventually, slowly, make herself known. To find someone sweet to share the nights with. To perhaps, have children, a home away from the small sleeping quarters in her shop, a proper, decent life. Eastborne had seemed like the perfect place before Merasheel's looming godhood and the followers of that faith had built themselves up as a force to be reckoned with, a torment upon all other faiths with an iron determination to see all kneel to their power and all other gods fall to dust. Flora almost, in her deliriously frightened mind, felt the retreat of the old gods she worshiped, the ancient ones who protected the woods and the creatures within. Perhaps Merasheel was the one true god. Just fathoming it had her stricken all the more. She battled internally with as much vigor as the chaos outside-- should she run? Should she fight? Should she stay? She could feign innocence perhaps, she had not used her powers in nearly half a decade-- the flowers in her shop did not turn to her in wanting or blossom in her nearness-- perhaps the Empire would think her just a simple elf with no magical talent... but then what? Slavery? To be sold to some worshiper of this tyrant god, lover of the tyrant Empire, to kneel and serve and bed... She was nearly in tears just to think of it. If not for her age, and her racing thoughts she might have broken into hopeless sobs already.<br/><br/>No... No she had to fight. At least then-- no matter what they did to her, she would not damn herself as a coward. This was her home, she had to protect it. She got to her feet, her legs shaking beneath a long, billowing skirt of black fabric, and she glanced around her, finding a pot of wild roses that had yet to meet its end on the floor due to all of the commotion. She whispered words of prayer as she extended her hand over the plant, and while it took a moment for her magic to attune itself, the roses began to burst to life, producing a thick, whirling vine that she took up and snapped clean from the plant into her hand. She tested the weight of it in her palm, and took a deep breath. Her home. She had to protect her home.<br/><br/>She stepped out into the streets and was met with cacophony, the sound, the sight, the sheer abruptness of it all sending her body into motion long before her mind comprehended it as her vine whipped out across from her and caught up one of the assailing knights around the neck, yanking the man clean off of his horse the ground with a vicious thud. She snapped the whip again and the thorns upon it grew long and sharp as daggers, stabbing into the knight with a series of sickening squelches. She watched the blood pool and looked further down the street, seeing what was frankly an enormous orcish man struggling with other mounted knights, seeming at least well enough to handle his own. She nearly smiled-- people were fighting back, people weren't going easily to the Empire... she shouldn't either, and some of the fear she felt was relinquished, only to overflow again as a rain of arrows came down the street. She ducked herself away, narrowing avoiding the deadly shower as she watched the half orc up ahead maneuver, using a dead body to guard himself from the onslaught. Brutish. But effective.<br/><br/>She watched as he began to run, and while the arrows had yet to fall a second time she raced out, yanking a sword from the hip of the knight she'd killed and sprinting to catch up to the man she'd watched fight so effectively. If he'd let her help, perhaps they could clear the way, find other civilians willing to fight. She expertly coiled her thick vine whip into her hand, the thorns refusing to pierce her, and she came up near to the Orc just as more arrows began to fall. "I'm here to help!" She called to him as she unwound her whip and swung it up above, sheering most of the arrows that came down in their radius. Should she tell him her name? Would he care? Was this the time? Probably not. Just then-- she had offered her help. It was too late to back out now, to stop at this... for the first time in many years, she had killed a man and entered battle... The Empire's legion would torture her, enslave her, banish her or worse if they won. They'd take children and wives as slaves and firing practice, they'd force men to give sacrifice to Merasheel or face the blade if they won. They would burn beautiful, peaceful Eastborne to the ground if they won. So they simply could not win without<i>a damn good fight. </i>