The weight of armor bore down on Dawn's shoulders. It was a satisfying feeling, one of protection. And it all felt better when it was clean. The wear of the road last traveled brushed off and the blood of memories erased. It took significantly longer than would be otherwise needed to equip herself. Even done away with the unneeded plates and pieces the ritual of dressing took its time. She had to stretch her arms and crane her neck to fasten the straps and latch them down. Adjust plates, and straighten the hauberk.

Hands gloved in thick scaly leather she adjusted the tasset. The metal barding was hammered thin, but held strong. As with the rest. She had taken hammer blows, hacked at. Beasts and creatures had tried to devour her. But she had survived them. As she said, she toppled The Wall.

Engraved into her breast plate shone the golden sigil of her mother's. A brilliant yellow sun. The painting and Equestrian gilding had long been chipped and cut, and the original luster had faded. But though she was still so many worlds away it was a connection to home. And it had been a source of praise by others. 

But when she looked at it during the lonely darkness of night she often wished for home. She had left because of her mother's attention. She always coddled her and her brother. It had different circumstances on he, who had grown lazy and pompous. But it had made her restless. She had adventures lost to make up for.

But now she was in the thick of it she doubted her adventurism. She wanted to go home again. To feel her mother's kisses in her hair. And to lay in the thick green fields of the countryside. It would be a good retirement, she thought.

Her sword hung at her hip. It was just over the length of her arm and shone in a scabbard of inlaid silver and gold. The cross guard pressed and rolled inward and embossed with patterns of ivy. The grip a narrow strip of metal and wood, bound with leather; Equestrian smiths were hardly capable of making weapons for hands, and she had been forced to modify the grip over her adventures. The pommel was of all things as much of a weapon as the blade was, a sharp pointed replication of her mother's sigil, the burning sun; she had taken out her share of eyes with it all her own. And finally the blade itself was a long straight thing, define with a fuller in its profile, until it turned to a diamond at the tip. It was a sturdy blade.

Turning herself over she checked her gear. It felt right, and when turning it looked right. Everything was where it was supposed to be and the familiar weight of metal hung off where it was supposed to be. With a relieved smile she bent over, picking up her gear and throwing it over her shoulder. She trotted off along the cliff-side. There was a path down cut into the rock, no doubt from goats. If it was good enough for them, it was for her.