Left foot. right foot. left foot. right foot.  A head full of limp blond hair lolled, eyes staring vacantly at the head in front of her even as she followed the march.  Where was she? She didn’t care. Why was she marching? She didn’t care. What was she doing? Just following the tide.  Once upon a time, she might have cared.  Once upon a time, she didn’t just<span style="font-style: italic">follow</span>, she led.  But that had been a long time ago.  Now the world was just a mass of bodies she followed blindly because why did it matter? Only Matisse mattered; only dear Nathan mattered; and they were--<br/><br/>The familiar tendrils of dread crept up her throat, threatening to strangle her, and she pushed the thought away as she summoned a happier thought: Matisse’s fourth birthday party.  Matisse had just screamed in delight at the sight of her birthday cake when the tide around her transformed into a teeming collection of shock and excitement.  The unexpected swing in emotion from the normal sullen acceptance snapped Centienne into the present.<br/><br/>Something bumped into her from behind, almost bowling her over to the ground, but she paid no attention to it, her wide green eyes too busy sweeping around her as the mouths around her screamed: “WE ARE A STORM TO BRING AN END TO THEIR FIRE!”  What in the world…?  Before she could understand what was happening, the group surged forward as they resumed their march.  As always, the blonde followed unquestioningly, the months of training having driven the instinct into her.  It was easier to simply follow; less people interrupted her memories when she mimicked the others’ actions.<br/><br/>Centienne contemplated the merits of asking her neighbor--some tall, scruffy dirty blond--what had happened but before she could do so, the repetition of the walking lulled her back into her memories.  Nathaniel had loved playing in the gardens.  She couldn’t even count the number of times he’d returned with dirt smeared to his cherubic face.  Oh, how she had ever despaired…<br/><br/>When she woke, it was to find she was lying on the ground, bedroll pulled high to her chin.  The world around her was dark though the stars and moon offered enough illumination to see she was in a camp.  They must have stopped for the night sometime when she had been lost in her memories.  Pressing a hand to her stomach, she didn’t feel the pangs of an empty stomach; she must have eaten then.  She pushed the bedroll back and she sat up; around her laid her sleeping neighbors.  She could see no sentries.<br/><br/>She could escape.  The absent-minded thought floated by like one of those soap bubbles Matisse liked to chase after, drifting whimsically through the air.  Everyone was asleep. It was possible. Instead, her hand reached for her covers and pulled them back over her lap.  What was the point?  Here nor there--neither had her Matisse or her Nathaniel.  She was just about to lie back down when an shiver slithered down her back.  Green eyes flicked upwards, frown already forming at the idea of rain.  There was no cloud in sight but instead..<br/><br/>Large wings beat slowly, exerting just enough motion to keep the beast moving forwards.  In the yellow moonlight, it was a blood orange in color.  The lone dragon flapped its wings again, never once looking down at the forest and the humans below, and passed out of Centienne’s sight.<br/><br/>An indeterminate amount of time passed as Centienne stared in befuddlement at the direction the dragon had flown off in.  That had been odd.  Why hadn’t the dragon attacked them?  Deciding she had no interest in the answer, she instead slid back into her bedroll and closed her eyes, letting memories of reciting bedtime stories lull her back to sleep.