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The attack had brought about chaos; there were wounded, even dead. It was striking in its odd accuracy—she had been cynical before, and now things had come true. Eostre had escaped with injuries that looked far worse than they really were, a twisted ankle that may've neared breakage but had fortunately escaped it, and blood staining her face and garments.
Nothing more than pain. Nothing that she couldn't bear.
Nevertheless, for her to sit down and try to rest after the wounded had been brought back to the top of the hill (if they weren't already), the worst of them tended to carefully... it was almost impossible. An improbablity she knew would bring about a dull sense of fatigue the next morning if she didn't try to recover.
Perhaps she didn't care.
Someone had died.
She tried so hard to sleep in the night, along with the rest of the camp, but it was elusive. Things were simply uncomfortable now; it'd be all the more easy to be silent.
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