There were screams. There were snarls. There were shouts and animalistic roars and growls. Fyrlynn was screaming as well, yet it wasn't in fear. It was in rage. That son of a whore Teyrn had ordered his army to retreat, and all had been lost. Her sword had swung, her fist had pummeled, her red cloak and hair dripping with sanguine, becoming an even richer crimson as she bathed in the blood of the enemy.<br/><br/>She had woken in the midst of the battlefield, having attained a head wound by a pommel connecting to her temple, and found out she had been lucky. Bodies had fallen atop her, hiding the fact that though she was indeed incapacitated, she was far from dead. She had awoken in the aftermath the next day, and had hauled herself free from the carnage, and now with a pounding head, blood drying and flaking from her flesh, her armor, her hair and cloak, she stumped through the deep wood, seeking a water source of any kind, needing to be cleansed. Ice blue hues swept the area around her again and again, every sound seeming to die at first only to echo deeper in the thick trees.<br/><br/>To say she was a bit on edge at the moment was to be an understatement. But she needed to find water, food, and perhaps any other human contact. She needed information as well.<br/><br/>This war was far from over, and she was still up for a fight...