When all was said and done, Kirsi had put five sutures in Asena's left index finger. The wound was wrapped in a white bandage spotted with specks of blood. Asena sighed, flopping back against a tree, not caring that the position pinned her wings to the the bark uncomfortably. The wind whistled through her hair, plastering strands of her brown hair onto her cheeks. She was exhausted, her entire body felt heavy, her wings dropped. Asena wanted nothing more than to curl up in her tent and have a dreamless sleep that lasted a few days. She always felt like that after an attack.

But, she couldn't do that yet, so Asena tilted her head, watching the camp function. There was the purple tent of the kitchens, with dark gray smoke rising from the large slits at the top of the tent. There was the forge tent marked with black, an intense heat was always surrounded it. There was the med-tent with its crisp, white paneling that Asnea had just vacated, herbal and sanitary scents mingled in air around it. Smaller pale blue dormitory tents were mixed in between the larger vocational tents with no particular rhyme or reason, the roommates or families set them up wherever they fancied.

Asena watched as a line of children excited the kitchens, Kirsi's snowy sister Eira herding them as best she could. Some of the children who were near eight or nine had begun molting their children's feathers and feathers fluttered from the children whenever the wind blew. Asena remembered that time, it wasn't fun. The molting feathers went everywhere not to mention the so noticeable change in her body was embarrassing and unable to be hidden. For the children, the molting wasn't over, another would come at fourteen and exchange their adolescent feathers for adult ones. That had been even more embarrassing. Mentally, Asena wished the children luck with their molts.

This was one of the bigger camps, but small enough that everyone knew everyone. Asena could name all those round-faced children, name their parents (if they had any), tell their stories. They looked exactly like she had when their world had gone to hell.

Nausea rose in her stomach at the thought of herself as a chubby-faced seven year old, but Asena shoved it down and instead focused on the skipping of the children, the merry fluttering of their small wings. Even in their often volatile world, they found something to be happy about.

Eira saw Asena's stare and gave her a jaunty wave. Asena waved back with a smile. These people, this camp (though it moved around constantly) was the only home Asena had known since she was seven years old. Watching it thrive made her lips turn upwards and her heart turn a little lighter, feelings of nausea gone.

Their camp was one of thousands of caravans that roamed the ravaged kingdom of Astos. Mostly the caravans consisted of desperate civilians trying to find protection in numbers from the destructive warlords and their cronies that had laid claim on different sections of the kingdom after Queen Photine's death. This caravan--Asena's caravan--was different from the typical ones however, it used the facade of a normal caravan to hide its purpose of tracking the different lackeys of various warlords and in some cases raiding their camps.

It wasn't an easy life, but it was better than sitting down and waiting for the warlords' hordes to come and ravage them of any semblance of life. Life. The word rung in Asena's head. She had gotten to do little of that both before and after the Unmaking. It was what she wanted, to go wherever whenever, to grow old like Daesyn, to see the whole of Astos and maybe what was beyond it. It was a dream, a pretty one at that, but it was one that Asena knew would never become reality. She would die sooner rather than later, most likely at the end of some horde member's gun. She figured that if death was to be her fate then she could try to save children who had been like her before she left.

The hordes usually kept tabs on all the caravans moving within their warlords' lands and at least once during the caravan's time in the lands the hordes would attack the them; they would take whatever they wanted: women, money, food, sometimes lives depending on their mood. Saints help the stupid bastards who tried to fight back or had weapons. If that happened, usually the warlords ordered all the caravan's men be killed, the women raped or killed (sometimes both), the children taken into the hordes' ranks.

Asena's caravan didn't typically stay in one place for a long time, usually at most a few days, but still occasionally the hordes would find them and demand money. Sometimes they tried to take women and children, they never got more than a step towards them.

Asena loved her caravan. She smiled a little as she continued to watch her family go about their normal lives. The children were playing tag in the air under the watchful eye of Eira. The cooks were running in and out of the kitchen tents with platters, putting the dishes down on the large blankets covering the grassy meadow floor. The clang of hammers on anvils echoed throughout the camp from the smith tent.

There was lulling chatter as the day turned to dusk. Auden, the head cook and one of the older people in camp at about fifty years old, came out of the tent with a swish of the purple flaps. A copper pot in one hand, a spoon in the other; Auden brought the two together, making a joyous clang.

Asena smiled as the children shot down from the sky, licking their lips in anticipation for the goodies Auden and the other cooks had prepared. People began spilling out of tents, washing their hands in the basins of water that some of the older children had brought in. Asena lifted her unwieldy, aching body up, a challenging feat in and of itself, from her seat and joined Rhosyn at the basins.

Asena looked around. "Where's Eli?" She asked using the nickname she and Rhosyn often used when the broodish squad leader wasn't around. Asena couldn't spy him anywhere, and it usually wasn't very hard to find him. Elizeus was one of the bigger men in camp at nearly six foot three and typically stuck out like a sore thumb, but he was nowhere to be found.

Rhosyn shrugged, her fox-colored wings raising with the gesture. "Who knows. He's probably out brooding, thinking about what he's going to torture us with next."

Asena snorted. Since Elizeus was the leader of their squad (typically three to seven people), he was also in charge of their training and Elizeus loved pushing them with near sadistic workouts and training drills. Asena didn't mind that much, they made her a better soldier and hopefully would keep her from being so useless again. Rhosyn however detested the drills and workouts Elizeus planned for them.

The two girls followed the rest of the people at camp to the dinner that was spread out across the blankets. It all looked delicious. When everyone was gathered around the blanket, Vanya (one of the kitchen workers who was about twenty-seven) helped her grandfather, Daesyn, rise. Daesyn was ancient, nearly eighty-five, and the caravan's priest.

"Let the Saints bless this food before us." He croaked, waving a hand over the food laid out before them. Daesyn wobbled a bit with the gesture and Vanya gripped his arm harder to keep him in place. "Let Saintess Arabella answer our prayers, and Saintess Eydis grant us luck in all our endeavors. Saint Casimir bring us peace soon. Saint Frohar protect us for the rest of our days." It was a common prayer in Astos, Saintesses Arabella (Patron Saintess of prayers and faith) and Eydis (Patron Saintess of good luck and rabbits), and Saints Casimir (Patron Saint of peace and doves) and Frohar (Patron Saint of protectors and predators) were some of the more popular saints of the numerous saints of Astos.

"Blessed be them." The group said in unison back to Daesyn. Vanya helped her grandfather settle back down. Once he was seated, the group dug into the food. The fragrant aroma of spices floated through the air. Asena breathed in deeply and dug in with gusto.