First class; Turkish baths
She had fled. Though in those last moments with the dark warlock she had attempted to find her pride (so small, so weak), it had been a retreat nonetheless. With the night dying steadily toward morning but not quite there yet, her retreat had found her a room to hide. It was humid from the baths, the escaping tendrils of her hair curling in the air, but it was dark and quiet and hopefully safe.
Once hidden away, she looked at the new mark on her arm, frowning and trying to chase back the tears that wanted to emerge. They made the room blur, and she tugged half-blindly at the straps holding the armor to her opposite side. Several minutes of fighting found her free from it, dropping it to the side with a soft clang. And then she sat, skirts around her a nest of material, and she stared at her hands, trying not to think of anything.