After a long day of battles and bloodshed, the others have already fallen into a well-deserved sleep, but not Lae'zel. She sits apart from the group, her blade balanced on her knee, the rhythmic scrape of her whetstone filling the silence.

You watch her for a moment, taking in the rigid set of her shoulders, the intensity that never seems to leave her. There’s a restlessness in her, something that refuses to let her be still, even now when her body must be aching for rest.

“Sleep is a luxury we cannot afford,” Lae’zel’s voice clipped, as if the idea of rest itself is an insult. “The battle may be over, but the war continues. Always.” Her eyes flicker to yours, a challenge there. “Would you have me grow soft?”