Changed from bloody rags into his typical apron (and nothing but the apron). With the sword in his hand, Dagon was able to move again.

Moving out into the sandstone corridor that was set between his bedroom and his other room, which sort of doubled as kitchen, storage and living room. It was small, but a peasant like him did not have much room to wish for.

In the corridor was the blacksmith who taught him, as well as Dagon's cousin. They were speaking to one another at a hushed tone.

"I don't understand what's wrong with him. He breathes and sweats, but his heart lies silent." The cousin, Alria, spoke. She had obviously been encharged with taking care of Dagon.

The blacksmith ran a hand through his scruffy chin. "No doubt some dark curse of the dragon. Keep taking care of him Alria. His valour has deserved him that much. I will be with the town elder coordinating our restoration."

Before the two noticed Dagon, the blacksmith was gone.