The empty ache in her chest was the only constant since earlier in the afternoon. She could vaguely imagine a pit itself wedged between her lungs, pulsing with the raw pain of loss and the dull hatred that accompanied it. Rav was dead.

Oh, she longed to deny it, but Umolka was anything but naive. Rav had vanished - a scorch mark on the wall, and his belongings folded neatly in the Harper's trunk were more proof than if she had seen the drow's smoldering corpse herself. It had taken hours for her to come to terms with it, but she knew he wouldn't have left his weapons behind. His powerfully enchanted kukris were gripped tightly in the brooding druid's hands. She had not yet changed from her plate mail worn during the 'battle' that had taken place, and as a result she was sore from her crouch, her razored armor leaving her legs numb and her back sharp with pain.

Pain, she found, really lost its edge when faced with grief. The loss of her father only a moon or two ago had upset Umolka, she admitted to herself. The old Thayan's heart had given out due to stress that she, herself, had caused. Over her refusal to marry another Thayan. Over her refusal to leave Rav. And now Rav was dead. The realization hit Umolka suddenly, and the emotionless funk she had found herself in broke away with it. Sobbing wracked the woman's mithril encased form, bitter tears falling to the still frozen ground. The huge decaying rat that the druid called a companion pressed his maw to her armored side, chitin grating against metal as he consoled his master best he was able.

Hours passed, and with dusk came the exhaustion of one so upset, a fatigue unlike anything she'd knowing before. She'd spoken prayers to any and all who could relieve her of her grief and burden -- Shar to withstand the empty grief, Kelemvor to judge him should his spirit lose it's way. Cyric, Mask, Bane, any of the gods that her lover may have worshiped she made requests of. She had placated Beshaba, begged Tymora. Even as she loped back to camp with legs that felt to be lead, prayers remained on her lips. These prayers were to her patron, pleading to her for help to do any number of horrible things to the Zhent army she found herself lodged within.

The farmstead Storm Silverhand had once called home was now very much a soldier's camp. Smoldering ruins that were once the Mystran's cottage didn't provide much illumination in the coming night. Through eyes bleary with grief she could see a few of the Durionalix dragon warriors setting a perimeter of torches with the small, bald Kossuthian, gathering wood for campfires and preparing food procured from raiding Storm's garden.

Curos was supervising as the camp was being set up, arms crossing over his broad chest. He spared Umolka a quiet glance as she came to a stop in front of the dragonkin. The stare she returned was one of grudging respect. Her brown eyes closed and she silently bowed her head in acquiescence, then parted her lips to speak.

"Curos, Sir?"

A thick white eyebrow raised as the Banite regarded her coolly. His reply was one of almost amusement.

"Did you just call me sir?"

"Yes." Anger welled deep within the Talontar's chest, but she swallowed it and took a step backward, once more staring at Curos.

"Aww!" The Banite stepped forward in a shocking move of affection, hugging the woman, their metal armors scraping together unpleasantly until he stepped back. "You're learning!"

Her face fell from the mask locked across her features as she allowed her exhaustion to seep through. It suited this purpose for him to see her as tired as she was. "Sir. I was hoping, considering the circumstances, I might be allowed a full night of rest. I was going to head to my bedroll, and I'd prefer not to be woken up."

He seemed to consider this a moment, green eyes watching her in consideration. Then that smile. That damn patronizing smile, she thought to herself. "You do need rest. We'll see that you get first watch."

"...you're going to just discount my request like that? I come up to you, ask you politely after you," the index finger of her deformed hand shoved up toward the slightly taller man in a threatening gesture, "damn near murder Rav, and then you refuse to let me sleep?! I'm not going on watch, Curos."

The white-haired man's shoulders raised in a slight shrug. "I just asked him to see if anyone was in the house, not go in there. If he was incompetant, it was his own fault."

Umolka's jaw opened slightly in anger, brown eyes going wide. Her anger was barely contained, leashed down only by the thought of a night's rest.

"You...you son of a bitch! I'm leaving for bed. Right now."

He shrugged again.

"Then you better be prepared for a whipping in the morning."

"Fine!", a frantic laugh escaped the talontar as she motioned Pox before her, turning on her heel from the Banite. "If it means resting, I'll take a whipping. It doesn't matter to me." Boots sounding heavily, she claimed the first tent she saw without a person in it, quickly stripping free her armor and slipping into her bedroll.

~~~~

A sharp tug at her arm and Umolka felt herself being yanked up, the thin fabric of her nightwear in the cold Dales spring helping to jar her awake sooner. She could see the face of one of the disguised Shadow Dragon soldiers over her, dragging her from her tent now. She also caught sight of Curos, who had somehow coaxed her rat from the tent without her noticing, and was now sating the simple thing on cuts of meat. Pox's greenfire eyes looked around with a kind of dumb curiosity, the remains of his cheeks bulging with deer flesh.

"Curos, what in the hells are you doing?" Her voice cracked with sleep as she spoke.

"Told you you'd be getting whipped for that." He offered a curt nod to the dragon soldier, who gripped the whip in his right hand a bit tighter and turned his attention to Umolka. Before the man could respond, the druid desperately wrenched her wrist free from his graps, slashing her sharp claws up at his exposed neck. The soldier dropped the whip and touched his bleeding neck, looking unsurely to the Lance of the Zhent army. A few more steps brought Umolka closer to her tent, feet spread in a defiant posture.

"You're not whipping me."

The rat swallowed the rest of his meat, acidic spittle oozing down into the soil with his head cocked to the side as he observed. With another small shrug Curos unsheathed his massive Great sword. His strike was swift and sure. The flat of the blade slammed into Umolka's temple with a resounding, meaty 'thwack', and the woman's world fell from under her into a sea of darkness.

~~~~

A buzzing in her temple was what she awoke to. There was a horrible pain shooting across her shoulders a moment after she awoke, head still swimming in blackness. Somewhere beside her she could hear her rat, snarling and frothing in rage, struggling against what could only be bindings. Great. Her vision returning, she tested her arms. They were sore and pained deeply, it felt to maybe be a long stick pressed behind her neck. She confirmed, her hands gripping bark, that he'd wrapped her arms around them to cause this pain. She snorted and shook her head best she was able, ignoring the discomfort it created.

Dizzy still, she was only glad for the support in that she had no way to fall over and appear more worthless. Above her now, Curos came into view, his brows lowered slightly in a look of frustration.

"Look," he said after a moment of long silence, "I don't want there to be any bad blood between us." The man leaned in closer, regarding Umolka with scrutiny. "But don't disobey my orders in front of the men."

A sneer slipped across her face, her tattooed forehead wrinkling in anger as she spat out in heavily accented common. "Get this thing off of me." Amazingly, moments later Curos did just that. Or rather, ordered his men to do it. Once freed from her bonds she flexed her wrists, glancing down to her left. They had bound Pox with a crude muzzle and tied all four of his legs together, and the rat was almost rabid with anger, green-hued foam covering his muzzle as he snarled and snapped as he was able, blazing emerald eyes wide. She knelt beside him and spoke soothingly in Mulan, and once he was sufficiently calmed the Talontar scooped the creature up and returned to her tent.

Her only powerful healing spell left from the day before was used on her injured head, and she did not bother wiping the blood from her face as she doted on the angry companion, healing the wound he also sustained as best she was able. Around her she could hear the soldiers beginning to prepare to move out. She had to congratulate Curos. He had successfully purged from her the grudging loyalty she had formed, and twisted and tempered it into the most perfect hatred she'd ever felt. She felt no more grief, and the pain was little compared to the new heat burning within her.

There could be no peace now.