Dyakida remembered the wars. She remembered them all too well. Every night – or whenever she chose to sleep – some element of them entered her dreams; The sobs of the dying in their tents... her captivity to the Obans... the feelings of helplessness, as her sisters marched off to war against their own... These were recurrent themes of her dreams and her nightmares, leaking into other dream narratives as she tried to reconcile herself with them. She never had the sort of nightmares that she knew others had – that Kaalnia had said she had had, long ago, after the tournament. But she had these.

Her dreams were the only place that vision, in some form, remained. Strangely colored, outlined, abstract assumptions of shapes haunted them like ghosts, illustrating her dreams with eerie beauty. Dyakida liked to dream because of this, though textures, smells, and sounds were far more vivid and lifelike than any of the caricatures and shapes that floated in the dreamscape. War did not have an exclusive take on the negative elements of her dreams, of course - The trauma of her blinding, the burning of her home, the ever-present fear of rejection by her tribe, the neediness of the young, fear for Peyla's safety... all of these cycled through her dreams, churning it all into a mass of allegory, metaphor, and problem solving. She also dreamed about her craft at times, creating impossible weapons in her dreams that she could never make in the waking world.

These were normal things to dream about. Dyakida was not concerned, nor did she think they held a hidden meaning. They were just her, exploring the labyrinth of her mind, with all of its traps and fears and joys.

The war, however, had been real. She would never forget her time of captivity during the Oban war. She would never forget how they treated her – she had been, barely, a person to them. She had made them weapons - fixing the balance of their swords, sharpening their blades, fletching new arrows – working under the threat of punishment and the watchful eyes of an overseer. Their whips had licked her skin several times. It had hurt.

She was assessed and appraised, even when in earshot. She had plotted escape – that of herself and of the other prisoners – amid discussions of her value as a slave. She would bring in a good sum to the army's coffers, she had heard them say, her flaw of blindness offset by her rarity (as an Alkidike) and craft skills. They discussed where to sell her – to a blacksmith in the city, to the king's palace, to the royal armory, or simply keep her with their company. The blacksmith, she had heard them say, was less likely to be able to pay their price.

In assigning a price to her, they had taken away that which made her, her. They had stripped her of her tools – of anything she could conceivably use to strike back at them, intellectually, physically, or with her craft. They had robbed her of her walking staff, and had laughed at her blindness as she staggered in confusion. They had shoved her into the cramped prison quarters and broken what promises they made to her – better food, better water, more comfort, they had said when she had agreed to work with them. And, before that, protection. She had gotten neither. They had not cared about her. She had hoped, as she escaped with Ceyede, that all the Obans would be killed in the battle to come... but alas, they had surrendered. Dyakida had not been satisfied with that verdict, but what could she do? She was but a blind weaponcrafter, of another tribe. She was powerless to change the fate of nations.

Just as she was powerless when the Extremists rose amidst her sisters, spitting their poison. She had stood against them, but they had no respect for her. Though more than a few of them bore her weapons, they saw her as barely a Sister, unworthy of their attention. Some had harassed her, even threatened to cull her from the tribe. Such threats were not uncommon, and Dyakida had friends who would prevent such a fate from happening to her. She had not been afraid of the Extremists.

But just because she was afraid did not mean that her soul did not ache as they split off from the tribe and set out to war against the Earthlings. She had wanted to scream at them that they were fools, that they would be killed. As the rest of her Sisters marched to fight their own, she had wept. She had remained in Jahuar, yes, but she knew the fight well – both sides bore weapons she had crafted. In effect, she was on both sides of that war, killing her own knd.

It was all so evil. So dark. So anathaema to her. Once upon a time, she had thought that war was profitable. Good for her business. Her tribe was one of warriors, and they always needed weapons. The earthlings had many kinds of weapons to practice with, weapons that sometimes hybrid Alkidikes needed. To serve the earthlings was to serve other Brothers and Sisters, and to take the earthling's money. All profitable. All serving the tribe.

She no longer believed this. Not after the exile. Now she knew that war was unprofitable for everyone, and that all it would ever do was tear her soul apart over and over again, reopening old wounds and ruining the life she had tried to build for herself.

She was a weaponcrafter of the Alkidike, in the service of warriors, but Dyakida was tired of war.