The pine needles were soft underneath her bare feet, so rough and leathery by now that Arya hardly even felt them. She moved through the forest like a gust of wind and just as quiet, not worrying about getting lost. If she could not find her way back, she had the map on the tablet, and Taxon was easier to navigate than Westeros. She didn't even need to look at the moss on the trees, or the little blue veins of rivers on a rusty stolen map and wonder which one she was supposed to cross. And she didn't have anyone to slow her down and get her caught, either. Not Gendry or Hot Pie or anyone. And anyway, there was no one to catch her. No one to follow her.

"Ser Meryn," she said under her breath, swiping at a hanging leaf in her way, "Raff the Sweetling, Dunsen, Ser Gregor the Mountain,"

Thwack! Thwack!

"Queen Cersei."  Thwack!  "Ser Ilyn."  Thwack!  "Raymund Frey."  It was odd to hear a foreign name on the list, but after this one, two extra fierce thwacks! can be heard on the tablet, with no visual to accompany it.  The girl sighed. "Valar Morghulis."

She had being coming to the forest often as of late. At first, it was just to search for a Weirwood, a heart-tree with its blood-red leaves and scary carved face and tears of red sap. But those faces were carved by the Children of the Forest, and they were gone, and certainly not in Taxon. So instead, Arya took up her dancing lessons where the other people of Taxon wouldn't gawk at her or shriek if she got too close, or warn her not to play with knives and swords like she was just some stupid little girl. Today, she had come out of restlessness, and anger. Since the day Jason Blood with his cards and water and needle had spoke the name of the mother's killer, Arya could hardly sleep. She had been so close, and maybe she could have killed Raymund Frey first if The Hound hadn't stopped her. She could have killed all of them, and thrown them in the river.

Somewhere, there was the vague sound of drums.  Boom doom boom doom boom doom.

"There's a hole in the world like a great black pit
and it's filled with people who are filled with shit
and the vermin of the world inhabit it . . .
. . . But not for long."

The words poured out of her like black blood from some deep wound, matching every step, every swing of her sword. The trees seemed to shrink from her now, her and Needle. Good, she thought. One day I'll be back, or Taxon will bring them here, and they'll shrink from me too.

The drums are louder, lower. A steady beat underlying every word. Arya didn't know where it came from, even though it sounded familiar. Boom doom boom doom boom doom boom doom.

"Ser Meryn," she said, singing and the string of words almost under her breath in a queer little tune, "Raff the Sweetling, Dunsen, Ser Gregor, Queen Cersei, Raymund Frey."

When she was done, she went through the list again, louder this time:  "Ser Meryn, Raff the Sweetling, Dunsen, Ser Gregor, Queen Cersei, Raymund Frey."

BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM DOOM DOOM DOOM.

She said the names again and again, yelling a tuneless tune nearly drowned in sounds of steel on bark, on leaves, the whishing through air, over and over until, for the love of the Old Gods, somebody stops her.

[OOC: Posted here, for the musical glitch]