The moors beyond the castle where oddly beautiful, if not in a sad then a sombre kind of way, but as pleasant as the moss beneath her feet was, it was also cold, which seeped into her flesh. She still felt a little weak, and if she stayed she would surely be sick again. She stood on a small mound, watching the whiteness of the air in the distance, the elusive mist would be gone by the time she approached. Maybe getting sick wouldn't be so bad, she could go to the infirmary again, and maybe, maybe the midnight angel would visit her again. She considered pulling off her new clothes and laying down there, but no, she sensed he wouldn't be pleased by this. With a shiver, she turned to hurry back to the castle.<br/><br/>The dusty rooms lacked the breathtaking beauty of the moors, but the eclectic trove of scattered curiosities instilled her with a different kind of marvel. She found herself mourning the long lost past, long before she was born, which was not something she usually dwelt upon. Who had made these ancient blades, and why? Just as a sword, same as the any other blade, to be wielded by a guard, a soldier, a sellsword, or was it made for someone special? A son? A prince? A lover? She looked at one particular shortsword, well balanced, the grip felt a little worn but she wasn't the best at judging that. There were etchings along the blade. Meaningless as far as she could tell, just decoration, but they must have required effort. Remembering her lessons she found a side arm, a throwing dagger, long and thin. When she had first practiced sparring, Tilok the bored veteran of the village entertaining her desire as he saw potion in her quick moves, she had liked making slashing moves. They always looked good and made her feel like a proper hero. Tilok had repeatedly told her not to do that, eventually getting bored and simply allowing her sword to strike harmlessly off his leather armour, then punching her in the eye with enough force to swell it shut for days. As she crawled around in pain on the ground he had explained to her that slashes were not moves someone of her weight and strength could pull against an opponent wearing any kind of armor. She needed to make thrusting attacks, both to get her limited weight behind the blade as much as possible, and to be more precise, seeking weak points in the armour. His advice had saved her against the guard and she listened to it now, passing up a curved dagger that looked nicer, but would not serve her as well. She found a belt to hold the sword short and an ankle strap to hold the knife. She even found a pair of leather shoes and happily bound them to her feet, she was not use to such a luxury. And a leather coat, strands woven in a pattern delightfully rough when she ran her finger tip across it.<em>Was she really allowed to take it?</em>she thought as he fastened the stick buttons through loops.<br/><br/>And then she found the dragon. It was beautiful, in ways the moor could never hope to be. The scent of tobacco, normally a powerful sensation, was lost as she beheld the dark and silver wonder. The details on the hungry onyx, the smooth metal, she held the thing up to the light. She had always liked the dragons, blacks ones especially. Red and white where majestic, standing before armies and roaring that they kneel, blue would soar across skies unending, and green just seemed wretched, wallowing in festered water, but black dragon, they skulked, and sneaked hidden through the water. If she were a dragon, she would definitely be a black one. She could even learn how to swim. She wanted this, wanted it closer, as an earring, if only it wasn't so small! Her ears weren't pierced, and she heard it was painful with a lot of blood, but she had been slashed with a longsword, she could endure it.<br/><br/>She clenched her new prize tightly in one hand, all through dinner, eating with her other hand until once again that feeling of pleasant sickness filled her bloated stomach. She kept the clenched hand close, worried others might take the jewellery from her if they saw. Fen made tomorrow sound scary, being broken, she would have to endure it. As long as she could keep this though, she knew would be able to. Her “Goodnight,” lost on the drunken elfling, Cris returned to her bed, clutching the dragon to her chest as she curled up into a ball under the covers, closing her eyes to sleep.