It wasn't long before Fel was asleep, his chest rising and falling gently. His face looked peaceful for the first time since Zo’Dal had met him. She tried to do likewise, to make herself comfortable and allow herself to drift to sleep, but, despite how tired she was, how much her limbs ached and longed to rest, she found that she couldn't.
Worries and questions plagued her thoughts. Each time she closed her eyes, images of the past day and thoughts of what might await her yet filled the blackness. She strained to remember what had happened before she had awoken in this dungeon, but the memories seemed to slip away from her each time she grasped for them, or perhaps were not there at all. Again, she thought of her companions and their last night on the road, then of awakening in the dungeon, the skeletal jailers, encountering Fel, and everything else that had occured.
Finally, she abandoned the futile attempt at sleep and, with a groan, climbed to her feet. She glanced at Fel. Seeing he was still fast asleep, she took the lantern and headed off to look around. Exploring the armory might take her mind off of things, and perhaps reveal something useful. With luck, there might even be a way out.
Zo’Dal walked down the rows, running the lantern light across weapons and armor resting on racks of damp and rotting wood. There was a great deal present: spears, polearms, swords, shields, helmets, mail. Enough to equip dozens of soldiers it seemed, and in fine enough condition. It was almost entirely coated in a thick layer of dust and appeared archaic in style, unlike the style of wargear worn by the soldiers, sellswords, and watchmen Zo’Dal had har the occasional misfortune of crossing paths with in Ivonnum. But, it was far nicer than the scraps they had scavenged from the crematorium on the upper level. She briefly wondered who, or what, the weapons and armor were intended for.
What caught her attention though, wasn’t the armor and weapons that seemed to belong in this place, but the assortment of equipment on a rack near the back of the chamber. Immediately, she recognized the dark-gray cloak draped over the top cross-beam and the leather armor hanging beside it. With surprise and delight, she rushed over to it and confirmed her first suspicion: it was her own equipment, that which she had set out from Ivonnum with. Her cloak, her armor, her pack, her daggers, her boots-
Suddenly hopeful, she sifted through the items with haste, digging through her belt pouches and backpack, and her heart sank. She searched again, then a third time, but to her dismay, it was clear that her jet pendant was not among her possessions. Her pack contained all of her other gear she had brought: iron pitons, lantern oil, a spare tunic and trousers, but not the pendant. She cast the lantern about, kneeling and searching the floor under and behind the rack in case it had fallen. Finally, she gave up the search. With effort, she pushed aside the disappointment and turned her attention back to her gear. That she had found anything at all of her own possession was a tremendous relief.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Zo’Dal drew the scavenged dagger from her boot and stuck it point-first into the rotted wood of the rack, then stripped off the old and ill-fitting jerkin she wore and the weathered boots. Glancing back to make sure she was out of sight from where Fel slept, peeled off her sweat-soaked clothing and slipped on the new set. Next, she pulled on her own leather armor. It was dark, well-worn, and fit her slender form like a glove. She pulled on her boots, belted her daggers about her waist, and clasped her dark cloak about her shoulders. It was a familiar and comforting feeling to be clad in her own raiment once more, and she stretched, delighting in how naturally her armor moved with her body compared to her borrowed gear and how her boots hugged her feet.
She drew one of her daggers, weighing the familiar blade in her hand with satisfaction. It, like its twin, was an elegant weapon with a long, slender blade, and intricately etched hilt. It had cost her a pretty sum. She slipped the blade back into her belt and turned her eyes to the dagger still stuck into the rack where she had left it, the one Fel had given her. With her own weapons again, she considered leaving it behind. It was a simple, crude tool compared to her own, a common warrior’s dagger, its blade dulled and rusted with age. But, it had saved her life once already, and, she thought, might do so again. Besides, one really couldn't have too many blades. She grasped the worn hilt, pulled it free from the rack, and slipped the blade into her boot once more, her own boot now.
Having donned her gear and no longer thinking of rest, Zo’Dal continued her exploration of the armory. It took only a few minutes longer to finish her cursory search of the place, passing down each aisle looking for anything of note, and found little. Then, she began a more thorough pass, the real search. She turned her attention away from the contents of the chamber to the place itself, the walls and floor behind weapon racks and suits of armor. If there was another exit, a hidden passage or trap door that they could use to escape, she would find it. Ignoring the fatigue weighing heavily on her and the pulsing headache beginning to form behind her eyes, she began examining the stonework of the walls and the floor for seams with practiced care and running her fingers along the edges of weapon racks and stonework to feel for hidden catches.
If there was something to find, she would find it.
