Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid.

The voice echoed off the walls around her. No, they weren't walls, there was nothing. The voice just echoed. Sarenda remembered Feinin surprising her, remembered the loss of feeling in her hands, and then just as he touched her wounded side, something in her mind snapped.

"Hello?" Her own voice falling flat in the void. Surely she was in a dream state? Perhaps she was dead. She remembered well the slice of the polearm along her side; she just didn't remember it being so bad as to kill her.

"Missy is lost hey?" the voice came from behind her, Sarenda jumped and turned.

"Hello?"

"Yah, yah, missy is lost." Another voice joined. Then another, a low garbled chant growing.

Do not be afraid, you are armed. Looking down Sarenda indeed found her dagger belted at her hip. She wore little other than linen undergarments, not ideal for any battle. Chilly for certain. The cold crept in at her sides, pressing in.

"Missy, come let us play, come let us play." Two eyes blinked in the darkness, fire red, then blipped out. Sarenda crouched, hand still on the belt. She felt the presence behind her before she heard it, so she kicked out an elbow, whipping around. Connecting with something in a crunch, it disappeared before she could grab it, the audible yowl her only satisfaction.

"Stand still if you want to play. Come to me little one." Warrior to the end, she couldn't keep the taunt out of her voice. It drew them in like candy, their attention focused, less playful.

"Oh youngling if you only knew, if you only knew. Pawn you are, pawn you are." A rough broken laughter followed the words. Imps. The word tasted bitter on her lips. Usually annoying, sometimes dangerous, always evil, and never, ever, to be underestimated. She studied the dark around her as the buzzing stopped, then, as one hive, they opened their eyes to her. Not just a few, but many, in fact hundreds of eyes opened around her. Speaking in one automated voice, carrying the weight of death of ages,

"You will be our sacrifice. You of pure heart. Free of malice. Rote in judgment. Leader of many, you cannot save yourself." A humming grew out of the crowd of eyes, as one they tilted their heads back, opening their mouths. "Better sacrifice even than this one," And out of the air above her materialized fabric, dark in color and texture, moving like a flag, it floated down to nearly touch her. Moving as living art, it shaped things, trees, animals, people, until finally it settled on—

"Nystar." She gasped. Her friend's body hardened into life before her, the eye sockets empty, the mouth moving in continuous screams. She reached but he was just beyond her finger tips.

"Worthy he was as well, not quite enough. But you, YOU are the perfect sacrifice." The open mouths of the imps spit forth flame straight into the sky, creating their own jail, their own pyre. "I require your skin, little one. I require your heart." The voice pressed down, "I require your soul." Tendrils of black snaked along the floor wrapping up her legs. The pressure and pain instantaneous.

"I require you."

The fire reigned down.

When her body jerked in silent scream, mouth open, Feinin leapt awake, sword instantly in his hand standing on his feet by the side of the bed.

But nothing appeared in the room.

Nothing attacked his charge.

Her body rigid, her mouth open; Sarenda fought something. Something bigger than this tent, perhaps bigger than this campaign. He watched for a moment, but even his ancient years did nothing to help his discernment. He let out a low whistle, not wanting to move. Chein stuck her head in first, then the sleepy unfocused eyes of Damien. "Aye Lad, what is it?"

"Come. See." Shaking off his lethargy, the dwarf moved with purpose between the tent flaps, cat in tow. "This just started. " The warrior waved a hand over the general.

Seeing the body, the dwarf turned whispered in his cat's ear and Chien turned at full speed, leaving the tent. "Mage." He offered in explanation of the feline's abrupt departure. They watched as the body convulsed, uncovering her chest as the sweat poured in rivulets off her body, when the foam frothed at her lips, they sprung into motion.

Damien set about mopping her forehead with one hand, while the other held her shoulder down, keeping her in place so Feinin could press dampened rags to her cracking dry lips, prying them apart.

It took moments to notice, but what started as a nagging sound at the back of the dwarf's mind finally registered into a buzz, then escalating to a pulsating, drumming hum. The dagger spun with radiant thrumming light on the floor next to them. The night elf moved to his side, both staring down at the enchanted blade. Then deftly Feinin reached down plucking it up before the dwarf could stop him. Feinin took her rigid hand, forcing the hilt between her fingers. Brilliant light burst into the tent forcing them both a step back with arms across their eyes.

Thousands of shards of glass cut her body, she could feel her skin peeling back. Her lips bleeding as they cracked. The agony , her bladder fought to release, but she would not let it. My body. She declared in her mind. MINE! Dream state or not, she would not give up so easily. Her right hand began to pulse, free of the torturous pain, the energy pushed through her veins, fighting the twisting fire that engulfed her. She didn't remember pulling the dagger from its hilt. But her hand moved, it flexed, it didn't burn. The dagger hummed with life.

Do not be afraid, cut yourself free of this reality. Live Sarenda. LIVE!

And then she knew, she focused on the light of the blade, letting it clear her eyes, willing it to travel up her body. The chanting around her intensified, one imp broke free, to take her weapon. Her bloodied lips curled in a snarl as his fingers started to curl toward her blade. Mine. When the dagger sunk home, brilliant light burst from the weapon, intensified the pulse of magic along her skin, seeming to sing in the blood of the screaming demon. Crying with the vengeance that coursed through her veins for more; crying with the need to be fed, she felt the draw of the knife to the blood.

"You will not win little one. Silly parlor tricks will not help you. You. Are. Mine!" The voice trembled with rage as the fire doubled its assault.

"And you say the arm returned to normal when you gave it to her?" Lysind hovered in trepidation over the general; studying the hand that rested at the side of her body, normal in temperature, only her white knuckles belied the intensity with which the unconscious woman gripped the dagger.

"Yes mage." Feinin hadn't moved. His own hand numb from holding the blade only a second. As if it had drained some of his own life force.

"She battles for her life." Moonraven spoke from the tent flap. Startled the others looked up, as Chien stuck her head in beneath the newcomer's legs, "The cat came for me, I'm assuming after the mage." Damien swelled with pride, tossing an always ready treat to his pet.

"The blade." Feinin said. "It is her only weapon?"

"I believe so." The druid searched his own mind for some tiny bit of lore or information that would help them. "She battles in a dream state. Much as a warlock or druid would do." His own weariness weighing his words.

They all knew the stories of enchanted blades. Light forbid some were ever found again. "Do we know where it came from?" The mage looked between each person as each shook their head no.

"It was powered by her blood earlier," the ever pragmatic warrior elf studied the woman who lay upon the bed. "Perhaps it requires blood to save her?"

"What are you recommending? That we stick her with her own knife to fuel it? Seems a bit circumspect if you ask me."Lysind couldn't keep the sarcasm from her voice, but as a mage, she seemed to carry it as a banner. "How about the next suggestion?"

They couldn't come all at once, it was as if each imp had to disengage as individuals from the pyre that torched her. And while she couldn't move a lot, the speed of her arm grew with each kill, but only for a span of seconds, she couldn't sustain it. Each breath and movement labored, life and will being torched out of her.

"You see," the voice seemed to circle her, clear over the roaring fire that tore into her being, "With you I can be perfect and whole. I can use all of those that I've called to my end, finally. Complete the circle." She swore it paced, stalking her, as if waiting for the perfect time to pounce. Like a cat playing with her prey.

"I. Am. My. Own." She spit out through clenched teeth, fighting off the scream that surfaced. Each moment brought closer the memory of her friends, their own skin torn off. Why their death was instant and her's slow and torturous she couldn't fathom. The voice just laughed at her, and then as if he leaned over her, it spoke slow and concise,

"Silly child. You are mine." With a brash attempt, she swung her arm up in no particular direction, connecting with nothing.

And yet with something.

Its scream echoed off the pyre and through her bones, her eyes burned and the bitter copper taste of blood filled her mouth.

But in a lesson learned early in her life she knew: if it could scream, it could die.