The night before, Juna had gotten a good plenty of sleep, cuddled deeply in the tent of hers. She was also alone, even though she could not have been, and some would have thought that it wouldn’t have been optimal, although really it was optimal. To Juna, having a partner to warm up with was more of a literary device than a literal philosophy, but perhaps she had been wrong, as, by God, she truly had been cold, and it had been horrible, although not more horrible than anything else she had done.

Whatever the case, she had slept as well as she usually did, with all that that would entail. Her dreams she preferred not to comment on, following the philosophy of a choice phrase that told her never to discuss the things that would bring only bad. She had followed Lothren, along with most of the others, back to the village.

Juna stood atop her steed, one hand holding on to the horse’s rein and the other holding on to a wooden torch, the heat of the bright flame emitting. She rode alongside the others of the Ytharien, and they swept through the village with intentions as pleasant as a pack of boulders rolling down a hill, although less helpful. 

Lothren had shouted forth “this land is ours!” first in Aretan, and then again in Viceni. Then he said, “Leave or be cut down! Burn it all!” And so they had returned to the village which they had burned. Once they had come to entertain, and now they came to burn. They were making their stand against the village, although it came after they had gladly taken some of their money. Juna, as always, would be there on the frontlines and do just as Lothren had commanded. She would have to leave the moral dilemmas to “Alan.”

Juna slapped forth her rein, and her stead came running forward. A pair of men ran out of the way of her horse, and they kept running, as they were smart enough to not want to tangle with a warband. In front of Juna was a house, nicely built and large enough to hold a large family for a comfortable life. As was always the case, Juna checked inside to make sure no one was in there. Lothren certainly seemed like a regular warlord, but he didn’t quite have the heart, or rather didn’t have the lack of one, to go full force in the endeavor. 

“It appears the lot of you have come across a bit of bad luck,” Juna said to a family of seven. “The fire’s already started, so I would highly recommend one full actuality of getting the hell out of here.”

And so then that family did indeed leave, as they gave Juna bad language and insults, and looked at her with fierce expressions. It didn’t matter. Juna continued onward to another house, which was empty. The denizens had already gone their separate ways from their home, which made Juna’s job simpler.

Then Juna came to a small hovel, the owner standing outside with a pitchfork in his hands, holding it as if he had a spear, which he clearly did not. Juna’s steed ran towards him, and Juna’s blade cut through the top part of his pitchfork, leaving him without a weapon.

“Foul Savage!” the man said. “I’d rather die than have you take my home. Come at me, elf. I’m not afraid to die if it is for my home.”

“With such a livelihood, I don’t blame you,” Juna said. “But why don’t you just go ahead and run. I won’t stop you. No really, get out of here.”

Juna unmounted from her horse, and walked towards that man’s small house, with her torch in one hand. The man came towards her with what remained of his pitchfork, but Juna swiftly gave him a rather harmless kick, forcing him back. He landed on his back, but not really any worse for wear. Then Juna’s torch felt the hovel’s base, and its flames slowly began to spread.

“It’s already begun, good sir,” Juna said. “Now, with nothing to gain, I suggest you get out of here.”

The man had a look of disgust come over his face, but he did decide that he had nothing more to gain here. Juna mounted back on to her horse, and she would continue to do as she had been doing.