EIGHT
[A rather frazzled-looking Clarice is seen amongst a pile of charred rubble, dust still floating about carelessly. She's muttering about something.]
N-no way. Everything's- My carvings. Even my armor's... charred to a- [On cue, she lifts the scorched and battered remains of what used to be a central part of her uniform.
Aw, man. She knew she should have worn it, regardless of the weight being a bother day-to-day.]
At least I have that horse I've been working on. The cloaks, too, but...
[She sighs, sets down the trashed gear, and runs a hand through somewhat smoke-tinged brown hair.]
Um. Now what?