Home, said the little voice in the wind. Calloused fingers tinkered the baubles around the wielder's wrist in silence. Her heels dug deeply against the sand dune that attempted to cover the rest of her covered legs, only managing to dance between she and the crimson cloth over her shoulders. A shadow greeted itself in the form of a thin strand, ribboned across her gaunt torso, its true presence resting over the firm breadth of her left shoulder. Cold and otherworldly, the halberd of the infamous Dhakashin waited against the wielder that it had chained unto itself, mellow amongst the heat between Rath's crimson cloak and madwolf Malris' furs. The symbol against her left shoulder had once again cracked scarlet down tan skin. It had been long since it had done so – then again, there had been much bleeding in those weeks. A spot below her ribcage seemed to stir pain in remembrance, a cold look passing the bitter woman's face. There was a lot to answer for; but the dread in her bones was not for those that had offended her. She knew why Dal Gren had pursued her. Pursued the Gael. Home. Home, home, home. The half-way point was drawing near, with Rasan staring outwards, his hooves stomping anxiously beside his seated companion. 'Soon,' Dain murmured, 'very soon.' The she-warrior was yet to see Victory. A childish name for a dove, given by an angry, vengeful juvenile with no place to turn to. They had handed the small, white chick on a platter, whilst others wielded crows, ravens, eagles and kestrels. The young ones were barely aware that it was a hierarchy. The crow-children were footsoldiers, proud people. Ravens, solemn and quiet, restricted to the walls of the library. Eagles, clearly generals, who picked at any that glared at them. Kestrels... Kestrels saw what no other dared to. Dain remembered how the younger version of herself felt her blood grow cold at such a thought. She now sat brooding, wondering if that small, dirty child had ever left her, the chill everlasting in her bones. Something was approaching. She felt it in the arid land beneath her boot. Saw it in the bending of the sands. She smelt it in the air. The hurried flutter of wings caught her ears. Victory cooed softly, landing on his owner's dark knee, picking at the brown leathers that guarded it. With care lacking, the she-warrior brushed at the white bird's wings, her violet eyes searching the ambers that stared unnervingly back. Home. Dain sneered, pushing the famliar onto her shoulder before hoisting herself onto Rasan's back. He broke into an excited gallop, storming into the old, broken town with all due haste, hopping over the wooden gates like a happy child. Aside from the dead bodies, the town was empty. The she-warrior rose an eyebrow. These people were no townsfolk. Dain pulled the horse to a halt, kneeling to look at one of the men, turning his cheek to find his eyes put out and his torso gruesomely pecked away. The woman snarled in disgust, dropping the man, having seen the brooch on his chest. Only the Bloodmoon would have been so arrogant as to make sigils out of their blunders.