Birdie woke to find herself laying by the campfire. Her head was throbbing painfully, but there was a cool cloth, smelling of herbs, laying across her forehead. It slid down her face as she struggled to sit up. She could hear the metal clash of swords ringing around her, each "clang" piercing her head as if it were the blade itself.
But worse then the pain in her head was the thick, heavy weight of fear which seemed to permeate the very ground she sat on, and the very air she breathed. It was intense, focused, controlled.
But another force seemed to be trying to conteract the fear, to drive it back into the shadows from where it came. It was something Birdie had not experienced in a good many days. The feeling of hope.
The conteracting spell allowed her to slowly bring her hand down to her boot, and pull out the skinning knife that she kept there. The blade was nicked and rust-stained in spots, and the split handle had been wrapped in rawhide. It was all she had. It would have to do. She hid it by her side, and waited for the tide of the battle to sweep over her, too dizzy and sick to try to run again.
[ June 25, 2002: Message edited by: Birdland ]
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