[b]The Previous Night:[/b]
The storm had caught the slave-camp by surprise. Not that storms were unheard of, even in the desert, but this one had been unusual in that it had hit during the night. Without the heat of the day to evapourate the rain or clouds, a downpour ensued, drenching everything and everyone who wasn't sheltered somewhere. Peals of thunder had sounded ominously overhead, leading the more superstitious amongst slaves and slavers to whisper that someone must have angered the Old Gods to bring their wrath so unexpectedly upon the camp. Lightning flashed and blazed at unexpected intervals, lighting up the pitch-dark night sky as bright as noonday when it did. All across the camp, slave and slavers sought protection from the onslaught of nature, in whatever shelter they could find. In fact, only one individual in the entire camp had no reaction at all to the ferocity of the storm.

The Ghost-Creature nicknamed Old Hellion remained inert in her cell, indifferent to the turmoil outside, as she had been indifferent to all the world for the past seveal decades. Only the world behind her sealed eyelids, the world of her dreams, stirred any reaction from her. For not the first time, her endless dreams turned to the dream of the day of her capture. Outside the storm roared as, inwardly, she remembered the weapons of the slavers roaring, and felt the shock of the wounds those weapons left. As the deluge of rain rattled on the roof, she remembered the rattling of chains and the creaking of wheels as the slaver convoy moved towards its destination. Her dream memories moved steadily and relentlessly forwards, as she remembered the arrival at the slave camp and her battle with the slavers, as they tried to move her to a cell.

Five at once had approached the cage, thinking their size and build, coupled with her wounds, might cow her into obedience.They had been mistaken. On the long jourrney to the camp, her wounds had healed completely and she was more than ready to visit her displeasure upon her captors. She had an edge they knew nothing about. In her distant home, she had been trained in hand-to hand combat and wilderness survival but, more importantly, she had learned a discipline that had kept many Heralds before her alive and well in a dangerous and often hostile world. It was called Kya Arae Thal; meaning simply 'One Against Many' and was a discipline that specifically required the odds to be against the practitioner. Anything less than five opponents and the practice was useless; the greater the number, the more effectively it could be used. When her captors had opened the cage door, she had been ruthless. Of the five that had advanced on her, four never got up again, and the fifth one had screamed for help before limping away with a broken leg.

Outside lightning flashed with a sharp crack as it struck close by. Inside the dreamer re-lived the combat. More and larger opponents had come running, this time eight in number. She had grinned and let them come. One had drawn a sword as they surrounded her, aiming a thrust at her side. She had stepped inside the thrust, taking firm hold of the extended arm, and driving the blade into the opponent attempting to sieze her from behind, burying it to half-length in his gut. She then broke the arm for good measure. Another attempted to lash out with a kick from the side. She pivoted smoothly on her toes, redirecting the kick instead of dodging or blocking, so that the foot connected with the slaver trying to grab her from the other side, whilst she took advantage of the opening that left, to drive a fierce jab into the throat of the kicker. He gurgled and collpased, eyes wide, before she delivered a kick of her own to the side of his head, rendering him senseless. She felt a sudden flash of pain to her right hand. One of the slavers had drawn a knife and had slashed at her with it. As he attempted to slash again, she deflected the blow, delivering several fast, sharp jabs to gut, throat, groin and solar-plexus. As he staggered under the barrage of blows, she twisted the knife free of his grasp, sliding it between the ribs of another opponent, before twisting the blade and then snapping it off near the hilt. The remaining two slavers had hesitated, evidently weighing up which was the softer option: running away from one slave with an attitude problem, or facing their overheads for the consequences of desertion of post and duty. She raised the hand with the broken knife in it and beckoned them. The knife was suddenly jarred from her hand, a sliver or splinter of it breaking off into the superficial wound it had left. She looked to see the knife's original owner, on his knees from pain, but still apparently with a little fight in him. She responded with a kick to his gut and then another to his temple, before wheeling back to face the remaining two as they decided to rush her together.

Outside another sharp crack sounded as lightning struck closer to the specialty cells. Inside the dreamer heard the sharp crack of breaking bone, as she disabled another slaver, leaving one opponent. From the periphery of her vision she saw more running towards the scene. Let them come, she would deal with them the same as the others. The final slaver had aimed a mid-range kick at her. She moved to deflect it, throwing up her wounded hand. In the dream, everything seemed to slow as she saw, too late, the steel the toe-caps of the slaver's boots were shod with. As the boot grazed her hand, a spark jumped between the steel of the toe-cap and the splinter in her hand. Her world had gone white, and then black as she crumpled senseless to the ground from the sudden burst of electricity, entering the limbo she was to remain in for all the decades subsequent.

Outside the cells, the storm roared with the fury of an angry god- as some inhabitants of the camp whispered and believed it was. Another bolt of lightning struck down with tremendous force, striking the roof of the specialty cells and sending streamers of white light and electricity coruscating along it. Inside, showers of sparks burst along metal surfaces, dancing and crackling between cell doors. Whether by chance, or the design of some unknown Higher Power, a spark leapt from the door of Old Hellion's cell, striking the steel splinter still stuck in her flesh after all the decades of her hibernation. As it did so, she released a sigh, like a long-held breath, a shudder passing through her entire being, as though every muscle had momentarily spasmed. Though this was the first time Old Hellion had visibly reacted to anything in decades, the significance went beyond what could be seen on the surface. Whatever that spark, that electricity her people were so sensitive to, had done all those decades ago, the second spark had [i]undone[/i]. The part of her mind that had long kept vigil for just such an opportunity immediately took advantage of it, reasserting the dominance of her mind and will over her body. It would take time- maybe two hours, maybe ten, maybe more. But the dream was ended; and now her rise to the waking world would begin...

[b]The Present time[/b]
By the time the higher-ranked slaver and his informant approached the specialty cells, a number of changes had taken place in the long-dormant inmate. The strange profusions that had been scattered through her fur had vanished. The limbs and body, long inert, had begun to twitch and flex at progressively more regular intervals. The long ears had begun to swivel purposefully, as though the owner now listened to her surroundings. The movement of the eyes behind the lids had ceased, indicating an end to her dreaming. And as the lieutenant and his companion approached the cell door, she drew in an especially deep breath and opened her eyes. The eyes, now open, were revealed to be an especially vivid purple, a violet almost matching the pelt of a certain other high-value slave. At first they were blank and unfocused. Then she blinked and shook her head, as though to clear it of her long slumber. When she stopped a clear, lucid intelligence could be seen in them as she took stock of her surroundings. It had to be the slave camp still. From the dust in her cell, and gathered on her clothes, she'd been here a long time. She reached up to run a hand through her hair, her expression conveying mild surprise at the length of it. A long time indeed. How long was the question though. She focused her eyes on the figures at the doorway. Perhaps they might have something to say that would tell her? She brought her hands back from her hair, before rising from her long-held stance, coming smoothly to her feet. If they had anything to say,she would leave it to them to take the initiative and say it. No matter how long it had been, she still had nothing to say to slavers.