[b]Overture[/b]

Claes sat in her command tent alone and miserable. The tent itself was pleasant enough, larger than three regular tents pushed together and graced with its own small fire, over which a pot of tea sat. She wasn't ill, she wasn't tired, she wasn't uncomfortable with her armor removed and replaced with more manageable trousers and a light, clean shirt. She was miserable the same way she always was before action, as little as she liked to admit it. In her mind, the imaginary vistas of victory and adoring crowds inevitably changed to endlessly repeating visions of disaster and failure. She had wondered if other commanders thought the same way, and she knew they did. Oromis was another story, one she would have to investigate for the sake of her sanity: if a man who declares himself a deity fidgets with anxiety then the shame that burns within her is unwarranted.

The anxiety was neither helpful nor appropriate: her plans had been set, they had been edited and approved by subcommanders, and were as she sat being dispatched to an army that had won her dozens of battles. She couldn't help it, though: her mind, with all the matters fixed and ready her mind, spurred by the natural fear and anticipation, raced along pathways of self-punishment. She glanced over to her wargear, piled neatly on the far side of the burning embers. An average-sized bow, rich dark wood inlaid with ornaments and decals, hung above a sturdy chain hauberk and a gleaming steel chestplate. The assembled protection made her look strange surrounded by the grey and brown of her soldier's lammellar, but a commander was expected to be richly dressed and easily identifiable, even if it meant wasting money on armor that would almost certainly never stop a blow. Looking at the armor only caused a fresh wash of foul visions, featuring blades or arrows slicing through the steel like butter and ending her once and for all, visions she beat down with sheer force of will as she removed the tea from the fire and drank deeply.

She wished Laurence was here. Or Gordon. But they'd been sent away to perform more important tasks than attend to her girlish worry. She would take Feena, or Cole, or Jessope, or Kilburn, or even Modeg, but they were dead. Volin was in prison, Scart was likely still in Tolosi service, Phisser and Lein were on the other side of the world, and Goth'Tal was on the moons for all she knew. She wondered what they would say, if she could confide in them, would they mock her? Help her, tell her everything would be fine, lash her to anger?

'No!'

Claes stood, throwing the half-full mug at the cloth tent floor. She would not be ruled by her emotions, she would not succumb to self-doubt or fear. She  would stride like a lion and earn victory for herself. She strode out of the tent, her footfalls hard and rapid. She could feel her heart pounding, her breath speeding up. She exited the tent, and as she was battered by the sudden, frigid wind, she looked to the horizon. She couldn't see Tolos, their position was a handful of minutes ride to the field surrounding the town, but she knew it was there. Her doubts fell away, her visions of shame and defeat burning up in the searing orange flames of determination. She pictured the city walls littered with enemy dead. She envisioned the Royal Quarter billowing smoke. She could see in her mind the flapping grey flag with its bright white stars above the gatehouse, and she smiled for the first time in days.

She turned her eyes to the shining moon, and heard familiar footsteps approach her just as she was chastising herself for melodrama. Sim spoke, his voice clear in the quiet night. 

"Come to get some air, General? I have too; even after all this time I still shit myself the night before. I'll be right as rain tomorrow, don't worry."

Claes' smile grew my a fraction. "I don't, Major."

"You're tougher than I am, then. I'll be on my way, General. Sleep well".

She listened to him go, and once his steps faded into the soft hum of the camp she re-entered the warm enclave. She slid into her bed, and she knew her fears did not matter. Her appearance did not matter, what Sim or anyone else though of her did not matter. What mattered was victory, and unlike the dozens of people that had been lost in the flow of time, it would never leave her.