[i]The Moving.[/i] That's the name Ceinna heard attributed to the large camp that spotted and filled the forest. People milled, talked, laughed, cried. The sometimes seductively alluring woman took comfort in the tears she heard coming from other tents at night. She was not alone in her grief, or in her anger. Months ago she had traded some of the last bits of her silken, expensive, clothing in exchange for food, coin, and more appropriate clothing.

Time spent on the run had not been kind to her. She had considered, more than once, turning back on such an impetuous decision she had made. Joining a resistance? Who did she think she was, what did she think she was? Much of her was still the same, she knew in times of less despair, but contentment had been replaced with vengeance that would not let her whimper back to Rocoa. 

The tent she had taken up residence in was not her own. Another woman, rough around the edges and clad in well worn commoner clothing, had offered to let her stay with her. [i]"Pretty faces don't last long, not even with the good'uns."[/i] Ceinna hadn't even tried to protest, a dry place to sleep at night, even if it was still on the hard ground, was better than nothing. And her host was often gone during the day, returning late at night. 

Ceinna had lost track of how many days she had been in the camp. Going home wasn't an option, but in the moments she was free from sorrow, she couldn't help but wonder what good she was doing following this herd of people. Was there a plan? Surely there must have been, but she hadn't a clue who to ask. She wandered during the day, between tents, listening for any information she could over hear. There had to be more to do than just [i]be[/i] there. It was a feeling that welled inside of her, the ache to do something, anything. But without a guiding hand, she was left to vainly hoping that someone would give her purpose.