People knocked unconscious don't dream. If ever there was an expert on this subject matter, it was Methuseld. She was an excellent fighter, but everyone makes mistakes. Especially when they're just learning. She'd had her fair share of bumps, cuts, bruises, and long lapses of unconsciousness in her time. Under the control of the Vizier, though... It was different. The Curse didn't let her do what experience said was best. It had a one-track mind: Kill, then kill again. It didn't matter who or how; if she got so much as even a whiff of death, she'd feel a little jolt of excitement (for lack of a better word). Like the 'buzz' from alcohol. But actually killing a man was euphoric now - a drug that constantly beckoned, egged her on, promised more than she could possibly comprehend. Except that the promises kept coming but were never filled - instead, a surge of strength, a quickening of the reflexes, a spark of grace and speed. It never stopped - a vicious, vicious cycle that she couldn't hope to get out of, no matter who fell under her sword...<br/><br/>For all intents and purposes, Methuseld, the normal human female full of memories and experiences of laughs shared and tears shed, had checked out during that battle. She'd been replaced by a being with a singular purpose, and that purpose was<em>not</em>to retreat or withdraw. Until it was too late, of course. Normal Methuseld would have recognized, at some point during the battle, that the building was becoming unstable - the clash had dragged on too long. Hell, normal Methuseld might not have even tried to storm the building while simultaneously setting it ablaze. The Vizier usually didn't send her on assignments. After the first few times she'd slaughtered his men for lack of anyone else to slaughter, falling into unconsciousness (again) after succumbing to her wounds, he'd taken the hint. Now, Methuseld always led from the rear, and frequently had to take it in the rear too. Such was the way of slavery, even for ladies of distant kingdoms and even for generals.<br/><br/>The gentle swaying, that distinctive rocking. Somewhere in the darkness, Methuseld knew it meant something. She seized on it. It was significant. The air, too - it spoke of hope. Of such promise and opportunity. It always had, at least for her. What was it, again? A riddle a djinn might ask, about a gentle rocking and promise. A newborn, one would answer mistakenly. A tiny hint of sweat, of fear, of mold, of spoiled food. Something slapped her face just as she came to the answer. A ship! Water! Eyelids unsheathed too-lucid steel-gray eyes. The dark pits within them took a split-second to focus, but then Donovan and his hand, inches from her cheek, came into focus. Methuseld hadn't dreamed at all. People who get knocked unconscious don't, you know. One minute, she was escaping from a collapsing building with the last shreds of consciousness she had, and then next she was in a hammock on a ship. She felt the Curse flood her limbs, compel her to obey the last order she'd received from the Vizier.<br/><br/>"UNNGH!" Her body jerked towards him but his knots held strong, locking her arms and legs in place. Even a woman of her strength couldn't get loose that easily; furthermore, the Bloodlust had waned with her consciousness - no enhanced strength to aid her. "Really? You took me prisoner?!" Testily she waited for a response, still somehow managing to sound like a disappointed father, full of authority and power, despite her current predicament. She had to admit that taking her prisoner was one of the best things they could have done. Her predecessor, now second in command, was a complete imbecile (in his defense, no one in the city could match her leadership and battlefield genius) - with him leading the men, the Vizier's chances of finding the group were reduced to those afforded by sheer dumb luck. Furthermore, should they be found, her men would be cautious about possibly hurting Methuseld while attempting to capture these thieves. Barring some sort of attempt by her second in command to re-assume command of the city's garrison by killing his successor, of course.<br/><br/>Steel eyes, inspecting their surroundings, moved on a pale ivory face as hard as it was curvaceous and beautiful. The fox in the corner, the two humans surrounded by more hammocks. The sleeping quarters, no doubt. Then the eyes moved back to him - cold, calculating, dangerous. "Well?!" She asked, although nary a second had passed.