There's all different shapes of exhaustion; the amazingly satisfying kind, and the less glamorous and more drained variety, where you can't even be pleased by the aches in your limbs. Herian has always done well at pushing through exhaustion, but right now her mind frels blank. They made it to an Inquisition camp, the refugees are safe, and now she must decide whether to linger and supervise a while or ride on to the next town. More people always needed help.

She is leaning against the side of an ornate fountain that seems excessive even by Orlesian standards, and slowly rolling her shoulders to tease out the tension in them.

It's a good thing its so peaceful, and all.