Pain is a cycle. It will feed upon itself. And it will consume all those caught within its fire.

Elven Proverb

Whether or not Brentai got any sleep, Sheala had no idea.  All she knew was, personally, she hadn't accrued a single minute for herself as the hours passed following her settling in for the evening.

Foremost for her focus was trying to formulate some semblance of an idea that could be considered a plan. And not just any old plan.  But something successful enough that she could prove her value to this entire expedition beyond being a happenstance barer of one of a set of required keys.

Despite hours of desperate and intense focus, it was a goal she failed to bring to fruition.

Lost in her own thoughts, the evening in her hiding place passed far too quickly.  Through gaps in the layers of hay covering her, the dawning of a new day was upon her without any progress being made. Mumbling to herself and from within the hay, Sheala eventually came back around to Brentai's remarks.  "Wow them with your charm." 

"What was that?" Brentai's hushed reply came to words she hadn't realized she said aloud.

Realizing he was awake, she restated her comment. "You said, wow them with your charm."

"You know I was kidding, right?"

"Yeah, I do.  But that still might not be a bad idea."  Her thoughts now starting to bear some fruit, Sheala needed to know one thing.  "How much do you think I look like my sister?"

"What?"

"You got a good look at her, right?  I know we're identical twins, but do you think I look enough like her?"

"Well, yeah."  There was an obvious hesitation in Brentai's response as he was trying to figure out where Sheala was going with this.  "I mean, I was pretty much nose to nose with her back on the Oracle until you came along and sent her overboard."

"And?  What do you think?"

"Honestly?  The very first thought that went through my mind was how similar her voice was to yours.  A little more commanding, though.  Like when you're really angry.  And the two of you definitely look a lot alike."

"Think I can fake it?  You know, pretending to be her?  Being enough like her to at least confuse these Imperial soldiers?"

The conversation paused while Brentai considered the question.  "It's possible.  Sure.  I mean, I've seen your acting and you're pretty good at getting into character.  Just like at the Yule Festival."

"Well, that wasn't exactly my most successful performance."  With that bit of self-deprecation, Sheala smiled. "Good a plan as any, I guess."  That's when Sheala resolved it was as good a time as any to implement what was still a half-baked plot.  Forcing her weary muscles to move, she rose from her hiding place, sloughing off bits of hay like a lizard shedding its skin.

Brentai's rise in his prison mirrored her own.

"Here goes nothing.  You ready?"  Sheala pulled pieces of straw from her hair and brushed a few remaining ones off her armor.

He acknowledged her only with what was barely recognizable as a nod, then set to work on the lock securing the cage.

Drawing her sword, Sheala put one foot in front of another and marched through the small encampment.  The place was like a ghost town.  Even those who were supposed to be on watch had apparently found somewhere to hide and drifted off to sleep.

"How downright boring."  Sheala resumed speaking with herself upon reaching the dead center of the misaligned collection of tents and not meeting even the slightest bit of resistance.  "Let's make this interesting? Shall we?"

With a swift kick, she sent a stack of inverted wooden buckets into a tumbling cascade.  As they clattered off the wheel of an unhitched and unloaded supply cart, she realized that alone should have made enough to get some attention, but she added her own voice for emphasis.

"Wake up, you pieces of dragon scat!" Trying to channel what she envisioned Cassandra might have said, she deepened her tone to add some growl and menace based on Brentai's suggestion.  Sheala also recalled that brief instance upon the deck of the Oracle where she'd seen her sister, before she'd punched her and realized who she was, and tried to implement her posture as best as she could remember.  "What kind of operation am I running here?"  Continuing to pace about, she slashed clean through lines holding up several of the tents and sent them toppling down on whoever was inside.  "Look at me!  Just walking around out here!  If I, General St—Nightwing herself, could get in here so easily?  Without being noticed?  So could a whole squad of rebels!  Come on!  On your feet!"

Jumping up on the back of the cart, Sheala started banging her sword against the wooden structure as tent flaps were already opening in rapid succession.  Bleary-eyed Imperial soldiers stumbled out in various states of dress.  Every one of them just stood there, staring at her in a haze but trying to look formal.

The necklace Sheala wore, the one given to her by her father, was buzzing with warnings of danger that she'd only recently begun to understand.  She didn't need reminded that this was perhaps not the safest course of action, and now that she had their attention, the former thief also had to admit the specifics of her vague plan were by and large exceeded.   So she improvised upon her previous and spontaneous decision.

Sheala cleared her throat.  "Well?  What do all you sorry sacks have to say for yourself? You call yourselves Imperial soldiers?  You're a disgrace to the Empire!"

"Apologies, general." A soldier, not too young, but definitely not too old, with disheveled black hair stumbled forward, buttoning up his shirt.  He snapped to attention after missing two of the six buttons and mis-aligning one of the others.

"You're in charge of this miserable ragtag assortment of pathetic excuses for soldiers?"

"I am, yes, Ma'am."

Sheala took a quick glance at his rank markings on his shoulders.  "You should be ashamed of yourself, Major!" She added a disappointed shake of her head.

"I am.  Sorry, Ma'am."

"I should run you through for this disgrace like I would any rebel caught on the field of battle!" Sheala brought the tip of her sword up under the man's chin, forcing him to take a step back to avoid being impaled by it.  Even the other soldiers in this detachment whom the threat was not directed at retreated to one extent or another.

Once he was safely away from the blade, the officer stood there, his vision oscillating between the sword and Sheala's eyes.  Every so often he snuck glances at her armor.

There was something in the way he analyzed the situation that made Sheala uneasy. "Well?  What do you have to say for yourself, soldier?" 

He squinted at her.  "What's my rank?"

"Excuse me?" She pressed her sword further forward, and the soldier moved back in concert, but he definitely looked at her harder in doing so.

"You called me a Major." He pointed to his epaulettes.  "Captain," he corrected.  "I'm a captain."

"You're disobedient!  That's what you are!"

With almost no concern for the weapon Sheala brandished, the captain took a step forward, bringing himself closer to the blade instead of further away.  "Who are you?"

Sheala raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm your commanding officer, you whelp!" Then she waved a dismissive hand.  "You two!"  She pointed to a random pair of soldiers.  "Take this man away for insubordination!"

"Belay that order!" The response from the captain was firm and possessed not a hint of worry that he was in any trouble whatsoever.  "This woman is not General Nightwing."

"How dare you!" Sheala drew her sword back, ready to strike the man.  But the captain didn't flinch as she held the cock in her elbow 

"First of all, General Nightwing has two graysteel sabers, not a single silversteel blade."  He pointed at the weapon to emphasize his observation.  "She also doesn't wear armor that is a relic from the Hitithe Empire.  And she certainly would never hesitate to kill a soldier who is being insubordinate.  While you might look like her, and even sound like her, you are not her."

"You'll be slapped in irons for this insolence!" Sheala's voice roared, the character she'd adopted taking full control of her as her weapon hung ready to strike.

"Give it a rest.  Drun?  Feren?  Lock this woman up."  When neither of the men he called for appeared from the crowd, he turned to find them.  "Drun?  Feren?"

Two men, the one's Sheala had previously called to act, only shrugged with uncertainty as to who to believe.

Sheala backed up, dropping the tip of her sword. "Ok, you got me.  Guess I've had my fun. You're just too smart for this little old rebel, I suppose."

The captain smiled.  "A rebel?  Huh? Well men, you know the rules.  No rebel prisoners."

With the situation cleared up, Drun and Feren advanced, swords out.

Sheala stood her ground while the two soldiers moved to carry out the order.  "Now that's not very nice. And, oh, by the way, I think I hear my friends coming." Cupping a hand around her ear, she listened to the distant rumble of charging hooves.

The captain turned, recognizing the same sound as an imminent danger.  He clearly saw the force of riders descending out of the ruins on the nearby hillside.  "Form up!" he ordered.  "Rebel troops incoming!"

Sheala took advantage of the ensuing chaos, slashing at one of the men who had been trying to take her in.  He collapsed, grabbing at a gash on his arm.  "Sorry, Drun — or Feren!  Which ever you are.  Nothing personal." She bolted off the cart, through a gap in the assembled soldiers, and into the encampment.

With the sound of advancing friendly forces growing in intensity and distracting the enemy troops, Sheala rounded the corner of a tent and right into the waiting and drawn swords of three Imperial soldiers.

"Stop right there, rebel scum," said one of the men.

"Well, shit." Sheala waved her sword to keep them back.  "This isn't part of the plan at all.  You guys wouldn't attack a lady, would you?"

Her response was a sword arcing for her head that required a duck to avoid.

"I'll take that as a yes, you would."

With a crescendoing growl, Brentai erupted from between two tents, tackling one of the enemy outnumbering her.  Sheetah also swooped down from above and started gouging deep lacerations into the face of another with her hind claws, leaving Sheala one on one with the final remaining opponent.

The two exchanged ringing blows of steel.  Sheala felt some level of instinct desperately trying to guide her in the battle.  But those inclinations seemed so alien and at times counterintuitive.  They'd want her to lay back and parry when she possessed a natural urge to press the attack.  Her own thoughts urged her to ignore these strange imaginings, and she did.

As a result, it wasn't long before she found herself overwhelmed, on the defensive, and backing up.  Ducking a swing, she stumbled to the ground where her leg became tangled in a tether securing a tent to its peg.

Rolling to her side and then to her back, she avoided one strike and blocked another blow, but only became more and more entangled in the tether.  Her off arm became irrevocably trapped in the moorings of the tent next to the other one, leaving her to hold up successive attacks with a single hand and unable to retreat further.  At that moment, feeling that she had no other options left to her, was when she lost herself and gave in to what were the impulses seeking to command her.

And like she had grown up wielding the sword, taking the same lessons her father had taught soldiers back in Fimmirra, the tide started to turn.  She was able to put her attacker on the defensive, even despite the restrictions and her precarious position on the ground.  Forcing him to fall back with several deft swipes from her sword, Sheala bought herself enough time to sever the ropes binding her in orderly succession and twisted back to her feet.

"All right, let's try this again, shall we?" Squaring up against the imperial soldier, she was already sucking in deep gasps for air. But renewed confidence filled her with a desire to see what she could do against him.

As she reengaged him on a more equal footing, the only reply he gave was his steel meeting hers. This time, resisting the urge to fight against the instincts trying to convince her what the right course of action to take was, she gave in with complete reliance upon them, finding that soon it was her opponent who was disarmed and stumbling backwards onto his posterior for a pleasant change of pace.

As Sheala's arm drew back to start her quest for vengeance with a single, decisive downstroke of her sword against her defenseless foe, the soldier's arm went up in a vain attempt to stave off the coming assault.  There was no hesitation in her, not this time, and the attack followed without a pause.  But, in mid-swing, the prize she sought was stolen from her.

Sheala's sword rang off the steel of Sayra's blade.  The elven woman's own sword hovered halfway between her and the Imperial soldier, who could only watch the two women standing over him. "What in The Dark are you doing?"  Sheala's exasperation ripped out like an explosion as she stood there, unable to move and comprehend what had just happened.

Calm and collected, despite the sounds of battle around them, Sayra stood her ground while Sheetah returned to her accustomed perch with claws bloodied. "You cannot begin this journey with hate.  You have been told this before.  And I am here to tell you once more." 

"Let me have my revenge!"

"No. This is not the way you will succeed. You are the Child of the Storm; a beacon of light and hope; a savior that has been awaited for so long.  Do you honestly think taking this man's life, the life of one mere insignificant Imperial soldier, will cure anything that ails you or the world?"

"In a word? Yes!"  Sheala attempted to shove her blade home.

Sayra's head shook while her own sword wavered, but held, further denying Sheala's lust for blood. "You have been wronged. As have we both.  Both our people's have been destroyed.  Both our families taken from us.  But you must stop acting like these wrongs visited upon you must define you. You must stop this cycle. For you will learn that those who have wronged you have also been wronged as well.  And they have their own reasons for being the way they are and doing the things that they do as well.  And when everyone who has been wronged continues to justify the pain they seek to visit upon others, nothing is ever resolved.  All that comes from it is a never-ending cycle of pain, vengeance, new pain, and the death of the world."

"I don't need you to tell me how to feel!"

"Break the chains.  Free yourself from this course of action that will not soothe any wounds you've suffered in the past.  For they are now scars.  And scars will always remain."

"Why does everyone feel like I need this lecture?"

A firm hand on her shoulder forced Sheala to turn.  Staring into Brentai's melancholy expression, sorrow overcame her.  As though any pain he felt became her own.

"Because, you do." he said.  "You've been acting tough for too long.  First, you thought it was enough to run away from your problems, when you could have returned to Fimmirra long before you did.  And now?  Now that you have and it's lying in ruins?  You believe none of this will stop until you destroy everyone you think has wronged you. And you even have tried to destroy those who care about you the most."

Sheala's arm relaxed, finally separating her sword from Sayra's.  "Someone has to avenge those that have died.  Someone has to show the world that there is justice for the wrongs committed by evil."

With a smooth twist, Sayra's sword flipped over with graceful ease in her hand and slid back into its sheath at her side.  "And when the time is right, someone will."  The elf glanced at the soldier Sheala had defeated, scampering away and running for his life.  "Let him go.  He will deliver an important message that people must here."