Gashes on his face. Eragos worked to correct his jarred mask as they moved, descending one set of stairs after another, shouldering past a growing crowd drenched in panicked shrieks and madness. This was not the way it was supposed to be. Eragos hefted his sword, and the crowd parted with even more hideous screams. There were soldiers. If they wanted a fight, they made no sign in that direction. Instead they scattered at his hideous presence. Blood on his uniform, ripped and ruined with the combat he'd just endured. Blood running out beneath the chin of his mask. Wounds to the head stopped bleeding slowest. As long as it was not in his eyes. Not yet. Soon, perhaps, but not yet. There was only one thing that could stop him now. Exhaustion, or another dragon. Or perhaps the first dragon that had fled come back to take its vengeance.

( How to make sure that didn't happen. )

Each jostling of the wagon, brought on by poorly made wheels which seemed more square than round reminded Eragos of the pain that he was in. Even if the healing had worked he was still swathed in bandages. Those and the exhaustion creeping through his limbs made him unable to do more than grunt sourly when another rough patch was struck by the driver, who seemed perpetually in search of them. It was an oddity to his eyes but probably a necessity. Covered on all sides, including top and back. Really a box that was drawn by horses with a driver outside of it. This was no way to travel; he wanted to be able to breath in cool and flowing air. Instead he was staring at the toes of his boots and wondering whether or not they were going to make it to the capitol this way. The four of them, a king and a princess and a lady and a mercenary, were not precisely the most suited to avoiding notice.

( Take the last. )