[Muse]

Astrid stood in her home in Bezantur, going through an old chest of her father's belongings. Her long, red hair hung down her face as she opened the chest, a look of somber but yet a hint of curiosity in her eyes, reaching back to brush her hair slightly past her horns and out of her face as she began to pick out seperate items of her father's past. She hefted her father's red and yellow armor of Kossuth out of the chest, and began to appropriately place piece by piece on an armor stand. Astrid seemed to have no trouble putting this in place, the rather taller tiefling woman waving her tail back and forth as she grunted once she set her father's armor stand now near the fireplace. She shook her head a few moments, placing the old Kossuthian cloak and his old sword next to the armor stand on the mantle of her fireplace. She then rose an eyebrow as she came across an old, blood-stained book. She had waited a long time, not really giving her father's old belonging chest she gathered after his execution any mind due to her frustration of how idiotic he went and got himself in such a situation. She smirked, knowing her father quite well and how he got himself in many near death situations before. With caution, she opened his book.

"The Journal of Jay Asher, Fire Drake of Kossuth."

With more intent than she expected she began to read through the pages, her pace quickening in her reading. Her amber eyes scanned across the pages with interest, growing more and more as she grew more and more enamored with the passages of the journal. She read each entry with interest, a slight tear even forming on her right eye and falling down her cheek as she read his last journal entry. She spent hours there, comprehending the meaning, and imagining to herself how exciting it must've been to be him. To know these people, to go and accomplish these feats, earn these riches, and become known throughout the nation. She then stood up, and left her home for the first time in months. She grabbed her father's sword by the hilt, running her thumb over it for a few seconds as she choked back a few tears. She sighed, and took her father's sword, and his scabbard and placed it around her shoulder, sliding that flaming, large bastard sword back into it's scabbard. Sure, she wouldn't be able to use it for a long, long time. But she kept it with her, forever and always. She set out then, out of her home, with the copy of the deed in her hand. After she got a few of her belongings with her, she set out. Goal number one, get a suit of armor. Goal number two, shed herself of her shell and become free of her home, the prison that has kept her there in fear of the ones who executed her father. Goal number three, find this beggar of which he spoke so negatively about.