The lancer felt ill at ease within the monastery, as she always did within the places of worship - made all the worse by the weather of the unfamiliar city and the mixture of the crowd that bustled around within to receive shelter from the building. None that seemed to be of her own race either; Hume all save for a few travelers from Rhiannon. The mottled, unrefined nature of the gathering made the Elvaan wish for her home city all the more; even if it were starting to feel as if the road was more home than the couth and regal manner of the Elvaan houses of Dwynia.<br/><br/>The collapse and reaction to one of the more strange appearing travelers; the blindfolded woman with runes painted upon her flesh enough for the Dragoon to depart a few steps, accepting the invitation to take refuge within the abbey. A few softly placed steps of her armored feet, the dragoon’s art to marry grace matched with their armors and spear to become like a dragon in flight, in quest for the representation of Wind within the array of tapestries; the most fitting place to lay the trinkets of her dragoon comrades - water and lightening both despised for the natural hazard they presented to the dragoon knights. And while most saved their faith for their spear; it hurt little to give prayer to fallen souls. Just in case.<br/><br/>Smooth dip of her armored body to settle upon one of her knees; silver hair wetted and clinging to the cape she wore to mark her of one of Dwynia’s knights in it’s deep purple color - only broken by the pole weapon strapped there. The spear that was trade of her peers; representing the tail of the dragons they likened themselves to. Little movements to tug open a small pouch and lay out the objects. A pair of rings, a bracelet, a necklace. Tradition of the Dragoons to pass on most dear to them; the spear and armor, from one generation to the other while the rest given over to the nearest temple for blessing in the second-life.<br/><br/>Lips exposed from the helm start to form some words; to voice her distrust of such legends - especially ones of faith. The passing of time did much to color the stories of one’s victories; turning a close victory for a smooth sweep, needed causalities to sacrifices, and skill honed to the watching protection of faith. The passing desiring to voice herself at the legend of the curators was broken however; an exclamation coming from the crowd that rouse the dragoon back onto her feet with a chill of fear that slid deep in the back of her mind; a Tonberry? They were dangerous beings, and one was here?<br/><br/>Form pivots around; hand already seeking out the handle of her down-turned spear strapped to her back while scanning across the crowd for the small green creature; stopped however with a quick strike of confusion upon her mind. It didn’t seem hostile; if anything even peaceful. Strange enough to keep her in place and observe.<br/>