The steady scrape of the broomâs bristles was so soft as to be almost unheard against the cool grey flagstone of the Cathedralâs Crypts. She was tucked away, all but hidden in the gloom of a poorly lit corridor, the nearest torch having burned to little more than a guttering wick, a dull, hunched figure in the darkness -- recognizable in an instant for the silhouette of the battered black hat, the purposeful, steady slowness of her repetitive motion.
The Crypts were still, almost oppressive in their silence; the air felt thicker, cold enough to raise steam from the torches. The Light was present there, etched into the stones, the memory of a thousand prayers left alongside decades-old wardings maintained in much older traditions. Bones of hallowed champions interred for final rest lay all but forgotten behind stones, their names faded to only the greyest of memories, kept in archives but seldom spoken -- their stories blurred together like so much ink left to run down the page, now offering only an impression of tarnished heroism where once their deeds had stood in silver and gold.
And there was Sir Dawnhammer, once knighted âthe Resoluteâ, a relic at twenty seven, dusty and moldering as any of the bones whose company she kept.
She didnât look up at the sound of his approach, though she had to have been aware of it, at least peripherally; the smell of cigarette smoke was a sharpness could scarcely have gone unnoticed. Dyna looked much as she had before, unchanged by the time heâd been away -- she was still raggedly dressed, head tilted downward, the worst of her scars hidden by the long shadow of her wide-brimmed hat. Her mop of hair was matted, colorless in the darkness. The broom slowly scraped at the stone under the guidance of her hands, but it seemed as though sheâd been sweeping that particular spot for some time.
At her waist dangled a book, tied by a length of leather to her belt. She didnât look up; didnât seem to hold any particular awareness of her surroundings in that moment.
