The flood was only starting, but it was ready to drink up this village at a moment’s notice. Hail watched the water flowing down steadily into the camp from the overflowing river, and she thought it amusing, so much that she had started laughing, the sort of forced and quick laugh meant only to express irony. It seems to her that the world was hellbent on killing them all, with all its effort, it would be incredibly rude to not grant it’s request. A hard grimace crossed her tear stricken face and it stayed there until she had rode up to the end of the camp, where the chieftain reside. 

Men and woman walked past her her as she made her way to the camp of the chief, thoughts and ideas rushing in her mind, a thorough reflection of their short lives and the futility of fleeing the inevitable. She tried relocating her shoulder but failing that, she made the pain and disability part of her, groaning as she stumbled into the chieftain’s camp, the pointy end of the arrow still sticking out of her shoulder, the wound festering, muscles tightening into it. 

"There are raiders...coming...I am a Storm Priest, take me with you." She spoke with a throat strained by pain. 

The chieftain turned his attention towards the wounded girl from his discussion of the evacuation with his counsels. An even more troubled look than before, grinds his teeth in exasperation. The glowing ring in her ear told the truth, she was a Storm priest despite her gender and youthful appearance. 

"Treat your wounds with this. You look as young as my daughter for god’s sake." He gave the pouch to her, she took it without raising her shoulder, not wanting the agony to be spiked. 

"Which way are they coming from?" The advisor asked, fear wearing itself more apparent on his face than the chieftain. 

"The South from the Stowaway’s Fort." 

"Are all your companions dead?" 

"I.....don’t know." 

"Like the chieftain said, get your wounds treated. Our scouts haven’t given us any information regarding this, but they have yet to return. We will take your word for it and we will get your allies back if possible." 

"No!" She shouted with a raspy voice, making what she meant even more confusing. 

"What?" 

She realized the oddity of what she had said and abruptly turned away, whatever she had in her mind still hurts her and what had transpired an hour ago, she didn’t know if she should give it her attention or dismiss it completely. Her father, Martin and all of them had demanded her to finish it. And her life and many others called out to her as she ran; it had been a strange two hours, what had spelled as a disaster as the nomads attacked was also a blessing to her. She would rather have a dislocated shoulder and an arrow wound then continuing what they demanded her to do. Pinning that in her mind to ease her pain, she made her way outside, calling for a healer, a barely audible noise in a flood of voices. 

The healer was making his way towards the chieftain’s tent to negotiate payment, before he saw a young girl standing by the entrance of the tent with an arrow protruding through one of her shoulder, with the other one evidently dislocated. He immediately reset his priority.

"My tent is not far from here, the flood is coming soon, I am not sure if I could finish the operation in time. You would need something to ease the pain." 

She followed, half in daze and half in pain. There was no recollection of her consciousness and thoughts during the surgery on the wagon, she only remembered the healer giving her something to bite on and hot blood rushing to her face while she shrieked as the shaft was removed from her muscle. The healer himself was in pain, what with her sinking her nail into his waist while he operated. 

In her state of delirium afterward, she watched with new light at the world above her, the wagon’s cover on top was the canvas and writ in which she drew and wrote her perception, and the numbness that had killed her rationality, the brush. 

There was no stream of thoughts for her as she started thinking about absolute nonsense. It began with a scene of the handsome nomad she killed being ridden by the horse with no legs, a brief white flash, then numerous polemics against her father, all the venom she could pour into it was poured, oddly follow by another praising her father for all that he had done for her, asking for forgiveness in regards to her insolence. 

She started repeating the scriptures of the Storm Priests in her mind and halfway through she had begun to make fun of it without realizing the severity of mocking the sacred text. It would be a memory that she forget, but it revealed her skepticism over the magic of the Sun, and finally, she had arrived at the will that allowed her to live. There was nothing said about it. She knew she was there, thinking about it, pondering yet no words came to her, many had come for everything else, but the will to continue living. There was none. No snarks, no hate, no love, there was nothing. 

No words were spoken on what she had considered as the most important aspect of her. And she faded into unconsciousness.