Falka obtains very little akin to restful sleep. All through the night, she thrashes noisily and almost as wildly as in battle, waking occasionally from a searing pain in her stomach. The sound of her violent squirming and tortured wailing does not stay within her room. By the time the sun begins to seep through cracks in the shutters, the dwarf lies drenched in cold sweat, gazing at the ceiling as if at any moment it might drop down to attack her. She tests each of her limbs in turn to try and rise from her bed. However, every one feels as if weighed down by a heap of lead. She lies there for several hours.
With ample time to contemplate, she finds that she cannot remember much of their journey back. Cursing herself and every god that comes to mind for losing control again, her mind turns to her companions. Questions would be asked. Sure, she thinks, getting impaled is a harrowing experience, but if the accounts of her fits by the elders were truthful and accurate then surely they would begin to guess. She scoffs a little, chiding herself for so easily trusting whatever the elders had told her. Perhaps it seemed to others like nothing more than 'knightly, martial pride'. She hoped so.
Something she did remember was the unexplained tremor. Too sudden and powerful to be steeders, she fancies, then prays. If not, then probably something else unnatural, and most likely sinister. Nothing about it sits right with her, and under all consideration it seems like a bad omen.
Eventually enough is enough and Falka heaves herself up with great effort. After a lot of pained wincing and repeated checking of her wounds to make sure they don't reopen, she dresses haphazardly and gives herself a cursory washing up. She does take the time however, to check and recheck the blade of her glaive, taking painstaking care even through her groggy and clouded eyes to keep it in killer condition. One she is satisfied in its sharpness, she grips it tightly and slings it over her back. She secures it closer to her side than usual, and keeps one hand almost hovering over it even as she scuffs out into the corridor.
Eyes down like a wanted man in a guardhouse, she stalks straight from the stairs out of the inn. With all possible haste, she makes again for the Helm at Highsun. Making her way to the bar, she hoists herself onto a stool. Out of habit she begins to motion for the barkeep's attention, only to catch herself and lower both her callused palms to rest levelly on the wood.
