[Lyra Greenleaf]

During the dead of night the desert was cold, and quiet. Only the muted sounds of the camp reached Sammael's ears- lowered voices, shuffling steps and nearer the tossing of the sleeping Damodred. Sammael couldn't sleep. There was a feeling at the pit of his stomach, not of fear but a weight like undigested food.

It wasn't a feeling he'd ever had before and it was uncomfortable. It wasn't that he wasn't looking forward to fighting- on the contrary a steady feeling of frustration had been building since he began this journey, and finally doing battle might finally relieve it. He was conscious of a cold ball of anger inside that needed dispersing.

It was very strange to feel so remote from his anger. Normally it was white hot and bubbled up like beserking in a battle, then drained away as quickly.

Restlessly Sammael threw off his coverings and stood, pacing in a half crouch the few steps of the tent. Briefly he considered waking the old man and moaning at him for a while, but common sense forbade it. He could sleep like the dead, could Damodred, and waking was not his best time.

From the noises outside the tent Sammael could hear that some of the men- villagers or Ghurdan's crew- were still awake, but Sammael could not fix his mind to join card games or drinking games any more than he could relax it enough to sleep. Pulling back the tent flaps he stuck his head through, breathing the flat desert air.
How I will rejoice to leave here, he thought grimly gazing into endless miles of blackness. No towns, no villages, no inns, no people except heathen savages.

With a grunt he decided to give up thoughts of rest for the time being and resort to something he hadn't done for years- mindless runnning for an hour or more. In the morningthings would be different.