Snuggling closer into the soft fabric of her shirt, she smiles.
She can never remember what the thing is actually called - it's some human fabrication, really just a long-sleeved shirt made of cotton, with slight cuffs on the wrists and a scooped neckline, felted on the inside and smooth on the outside- that a friend from far away had sent her.
It smelt of salt air, dragon scales, and another warm and musky scent she can't quite name.
She doesn't care that she's worn it so many times over the last few years that the thread in the right cuff was coming loose, or that there is a cut in the hem at the back where she shifted in her sleep next to Firnen once, and an errant, jagged scale cut right through the soft cotton.
She knows all of these things, but she doesn't care, because it's one of the few things she has to remind her of the friend she lost across the sea.