Their swords were drawn for the last time.  Banners hanging from parapets, boldly flapping in the wind, once signaled a call to arms; now they had been taken down forever.  Blood-soaked armor stored away, to remain unused, never again donned by the warrior it had protected.

For now was a time of peace.  The war was over.  The soldiers who survived had returned to loved ones, to families and homes fortunate enough to have been spared by the vast destruction caused by the conflicts.  This was a time of rebuilding; the rains of a new hope had begun to fall, trickling to even the most war-torn lands, quenching the fires of hate and anger, and washing away the stains of sorrow.  Those who desired peace had fought hard to protect that which they loved, and their world had been saved.

But not for her.

For she was a creature of war.
A being of magic, at once the master and slave of the terrifying power she possessed.  She had been a weapon, once wielded by the enemy: the cause of unparalleled destruction and horror.  But she had learned of beauty, of the good worth fighting for.  The world the enemy fought for was the world of death.  When given the choice, she chose life.

She chose instead to fight with those who wanted to protect life.  And at their side, she was a formidable ally.  Her part in the war was instrumental.  Righteousness had prevailed.

But what has been done cannot be undone.  She could not change what she was.

No rest for the wicked.

The world had been saved, but not for her.  No trumpets would welcome her home.  No loved ones waiting for her return.  Her fate had already been decided.

A creature of war, with no war to fight.

An unwanted piece of the world she had fought so hard to save.