Out of Fire Wood...

In Fort Cleaven's hidden forest Myra sits alone, at least as alone as she can be considered. With no outwardly company near her, yet bombarding alien thoughts from her forms buzzing in her head as a constant reminder of her lack of privacy.
She takes a moment away from keeping track of their bickering or conversations with each other and focuses on the crackling fire infront of her. Taking deep breaths she concentraits until their voices in her mind seem to fade away.
A pile of firewoods rests at the side of the fire, she feeds it the wood to keep it alive and takes a moment to have thoughts of her own now that her mind is cleared.

The night passes as slowly as the pile of wood deminishes, she watches the fire slowly dieing out once more. As an afterthought she reaches into her bag pulling out a purple and white elegant looking dress.
She stands holding it infront of her a moment looking down at it, she moves it over the fire watching the flames lick at the gown and begin to bite away at the fabric. Lowering the dress she feeds it to the fire, dropping it once its distroyed till the waist.

With a deep sigh she finally speaks her thoughts aloud;
"Stupid, she's wrong... there is no place for emotion, not in war."

Myra finally lets the fire die out; cleaning up the mess she leave no traces, no evidence and walks back towards the fort.
The voices/thoughts of her forms fade in as loud as before and her own thoughts resort to work and duty.