Wren had been in Coheed now for multiple seasons. It was a repeat of history, only last time she'd been sitting, a military reserve. This time? This time she was training the women of Coheed in the art of warfare. She was a merciless tutor, drawing blood from each of them nearly every session, determined to catch them up to their male counterparts as quickly as possible. An impossible task, of course, but Wren never accepted impossibilities. She saw them as obstacles to be crushed beneath her powerful hands.

Still refusing the hospitality of Coheed, the Cambrian had been camping in her tent all this time. Of course, over the weeks, it had become more comfortable. She had a fire inside and outside, some crude logs that women often joined her on in the evenings, and inside her pallets of skins had grown to create quite a plush resting place for her head.

Wren's comfort with Coheed in general was at an all-time low. The presence of Nevermere was stifling. Rian's marriage to a Nevermerean and now rule as Chieftain were confusing, untrustworthy steps. Wren was as prone to snarl at a Coheedsman as she was a Nevermerean. The only allies here were women of Coheed, and even they sometimes disheartened her.

It was evening and Wren sat at the fire outside of her tent. The women that had formerly joined her had retired to their homes, their duties to their husbands on the forefront of their minds. In their absence the lone Cambrian set her green gaze on the flames, seeing nothing but heat, her ears hearing everything around her.