Lyra's gaze flicked to the struggling guard as he was led off to the medical tent.<em>Serves him right.</em>Her attention shifted back as the stony-faced man began stepping toward her, and she hissed as his soldiers tightened their grip on her. She did not fight to get away from them, however. She knew there was no getting out of this. Instead she looked up, her amber-gaze focusing on the man now standing in front of her.<br/><br/><br/>"Who do you think I am?" She said rather flippantly, her lips pulling into another smirk. Lyra never claimed to be friendly, but the town's folk trusted her and counted on her when it mattered most. And she had failed them. She had failed to protect them from this and now this place was nothing more than some military conquest instead of the haven she had escaped to. She hadn't been born in Valtegaard, but had bought passage here when she was quite young - a mere child in elven terms. She had seen many of the humans here grow from children into fine adults. But she was still the person she had been when she arrived, there was no changing where you were brought up, or how. There was a flicker of sadness in her eyes then, despite the smile on her face. Sadness for the loss of something she loved so dearly. Shame for being unable to protect it.<br/><br/><br/>"May the Haven of Hope rest in peace this night, for Hope had been slain. May she rest her head in the heavens and her feet in the sea and remember Valtegaard always in her dreams." She closed her eyes as a small symbol glowed on her forehead with a brilliant blue light and then faded. Several of the townsfolk echoed her speech, and just as with Lyra the mark glowed on them and then faded. When she opened her eyes, looking back up to Endymion, she again ran her tongue over her split lip before she sighed dramatically. "If you're going to kill me I wish that you'd just get it over with already. I've got a busy day ahead of me, and I'd rather not spend it running errands to tell the truth. Old Miss Hawthorne's got me saddled up to haul a year's worth of pickles to her cellar. You ever lift a barrel of pickles, Mister? They're pretty heavy, even for me, and I'm damn strong." Again, there was that smile, but she blew a bit of her platinum hair away from her face as she looked up to him again. She smelled like floral soap and oiled leather - the latter probably because of her armor. If she found him intimidating, or if she had any fear at all of her present situation, she did not show it. Instead she seemed to revel in what little torment she could cause. In her mind, Lyra thought that he did not truly care who she was to this town or the people in it. He simply wanted someone to make an example of. She could do that, she could be that person for these people. The people who had taken her in when she had nowhere else to go.<br/><br/><br/>She leaned forward, straining somewhat against those who held her, her voice dipping into a bit of a whisper. "I hope you like pickles, we eat a lot of them." And again she offered a light laughed, leaning back once more so that there was less strain on her arms. She had no intention of fighting them, but she knew that her attack on the soldier would keep her bound indefinitely now. She had done what she could in the end. It wasn't enough, and it would never be enough. Never.