She wasn't special. If she was special she's know it right? Granted, she didn't seem to know much these days. Who killed the beloved son? What her own name was. Things. She attempted to be stoic about everything, keeping her face impassive. Lately it was just exhausted. The escape had been a whirlwind and it hadn't stopped being so. She hadn't had a chance to sort through everything that happened yet. And currently she was stuck on why. Why she, among these other strangers, was freed. Why none of them spoke. Not that she could complain, she hadn't said much thus far either.

Was this what freedom felt like? She didn't know if she'd ever been free, she assumed she must have been at some point. This wasn't quite it. Not yet. 

She was among those that didn't smell anything untoward. Nothing special. 

And then all of Zeal's hard work on her stoic expression simply melted away. A giant of a man in armour that, for some reason, stabbed at her gut (was it longing?) seemed to appear out of no where. How had they not noticed him? How had they not noticed -her-? The elven woman's face finally showed something other than weariness. Fear, irritation, the desire to hit something. She, too, hesitated when told to run. Her gaze swept the ground, seeking a possible weapon. Nothing, damn. 

Another of the prisoner's was beckoning. Zeal loosed a series of curses, mostly revolving around the genitalia of gods, and then took off, long legs carrying her hurriedly, adrenaline giving life to said limbs.