Freia sat at a small campfire, outside a small lean-to build against some short, but hardy trees. The smoke was blown by the wind off from the small hillside. Her seat was a small folding cloth stool, and she stoked the fire with a long-sword, that had its tip blackened by the small fire. Her small camp had been visited quite often in her days there, slayers coming to sell, and a few wealthy landowners coming personally to buy. She had always maintained a very clear rule on her deals. She didn't care how one came on the ingredients she needed, but she would only sell her elixirs to those who would drink them. It was a disagreement on this second rule that left the owner of the sword she used to stoke her fire, drifting face-down lazily down the nearby brook.<br/><br/>The sound that touched both her ears, and mind had her standing in a second. The call of a Great Wyrm could not be mistaken, at least not by her. Her magic felt the touch of the call. It was an omen, she knew, in the way that omens could be entirely natural signs, of natural misfortune to come. She had no doubt that foolishness would make the creature a target.<br/><br/>She was conflicted, though she knew what she would do. The chance to work with the greatest ingredients seen in centuries would be something she would not pass up, but she did not relish the death of a creature of magic, she was well aware, that, if not for her own skill in crafting elixirs, her life would be at as much jeopardy as that of the dragons.<br/><br/>Freia stood, and walked back inside, letting the skins that served as a doorway close out the light behind herself.