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Description
Peace.
It was a strange feeling, more like the absence of a feeling than a feeling itself. It reminded her of the past, some long forgotten part of her past that happened before memory. The times before her, rebirth, before there even was a Lars.

That thought swelled within her drawing up more familiar emotions: anger, resentment, bitterness. But it would not stick, there was something about this place that emptied her. The rage that had burned in her chest from the time she awoke to the fitful bursts of sleep that clamed her by night, it had been with her so long that has come to accept it as natural. Normal.

But here, here there was some tranquility, yes, that was the word.

Tranquil.

She rolled the word around, examined the soft flowing syllables like a bottle of Dixons whisky. No raiders trying to scalp her, no insane junky so high that they couldn’t even tell what they were attacking. No Brotherhood paladins, no Legion raiding parties, no, civilization.

It was blissful, strange but pleasantly blissful.

Allowing herself to recline on the on of the larger rounded rocks, the heat seeping up through her back loosening the knotted muscles there. Even the air smelled cleaner here, sharp and fresh through the sun baked rocks.

The individuals who lived here, the tribals, even they were a breath of fresh air, and with a little work she had managed to establish a relationship with them. Not that they trusted her, but, at least one of the tribes had taken a liking to her: The Dead Horses, a name she found particularly ironic, but saw no reason to inform them of such.

Some of the younger tribals had even taken enough of an interest in her to remake her wardrobe. That and her hair, the sharp bindings that held her mane in place, was also a new touch – one she was still debating keeping.

There was no hurry though, here, in this place, there was time.

Description
Peace.
It was a strange feeling, more like the absence of a feeling than a feeling itself. It reminded her of the past, some long forgotten part of her past that happened before memory. The times before her, rebirth, before there even was a Lars.

That thought swelled within her drawing up more familiar emotions: anger, resentment, bitterness. But it would not stick, there was something about this place that emptied her. The rage that had burned in her chest from the time she awoke to the fitful bursts of sleep that clamed her by night, it had been with her so long that has come to accept it as natural. Normal.

But here, here there was some tranquility, yes, that was the word.

Tranquil.

She rolled the word around, examined the soft flowing syllables like a bottle of Dixons whisky. No raiders trying to scalp her, no insane junky so high that they couldn’t even tell what they were attacking. No Brotherhood paladins, no Legion raiding parties, no, civilization.

It was blissful, strange but pleasantly blissful.

Allowing herself to recline on the on of the larger rounded rocks, the heat seeping up through her back loosening the knotted muscles there. Even the air smelled cleaner here, sharp and fresh through the sun baked rocks.

The individuals who lived here, the tribals, even they were a breath of fresh air, and with a little work she had managed to establish a relationship with them. Not that they trusted her, but, at least one of the tribes had taken a liking to her: The Dead Horses, a name she found particularly ironic, but saw no reason to inform them of such.

Some of the younger tribals had even taken enough of an interest in her to remake her wardrobe. That and her hair, the sharp bindings that held her mane in place, was also a new touch – one she was still debating keeping.

There was no hurry though, here, in this place, there was time.