April 2, Year 1485 in the year of our lord Glabados

It is the strangest day that I've experienced in nearly 12 years. Now I'm back up on two feet instead of four; and I find this very cumbersome indeed. Not only is it slower to travel like this, it's also extremely difficult for one used on four legs to balance on two. Also, my rider (or who used to do so) caresses the thing he calls 'hair' that floats in front of me, all over the place and is stuck to my head; he says it's beautiful golden 'blonde'. I see it as a pointless yellow obstruction to my vision; perhaps I can tie it back. I do feel the urge to remove it in a straightforward fashion; however, Beowulf says that I shouldn't.

I no longer feel the constant urge to hunt, driven by the eternal hunger existent in my previous form; rather, I somewhat…am disgusted by the sense of having to eat so much before. I feel that there's no need to do so anymore; that it is not healthy to devour entire carcasses in one go. Like those rats that I used to consume daily by the hundred in the caverns…

My body is lighter as well with this transformation; I move rather freely now, without all the weight I had as a dragon. Still, it's not exactly the best thing for me to be that light; my movement is somewhat…jumpy as I am used to moving with plenty of weight and therefore requiring plenty of power to move. Ramza laughs every time I try to jump on a chocobo and end up leaping far above it. Not fair…I should be able to be just like everybody else…

At first, it feels strange to wear these new things…the clothes, I mean—I'm used to traveling around the place with nothing on, saves the time for putting them on. Besides, having nothing on means that nothing gets in your way. Now these clothes that Beowulf has given me—that's a different matter indeed. They're thick, flowing robes made of some sort of stiff-ish cloth. With a ring of metal to bind them at my waist.

I've never used weapons before…but I get a feeling that I've used this blunt weapon, a brick of metal attached to a rod before; as though…I've used it for a long, long time. Like a favourite sword, as some of the warriors in my company say. But when I try to use it, it feels cumbersome and rather useless in my hand; it's nearly feather-light, and almost weak, brittle and soft to my touch. Beowulf hands me a dagger—this I will not use, definitely not. The blade bends when I run my finger along its blunt edge. No, no weapons will do for me…perhaps I will learn how to use them later.

When we arrived at a pool of clear water, Beowulf asked me to wash, telling me that I was dirty. True, I was covered in quite a lot of mud after the battle in the swamp; Ramza commented quite liberally on how I broke a squire's blade with a strike from my fist; and how I broke his neck with a single kick delivered from the side. He says it's not ladylike; what do I care about that?

Now that I've gotten my long 'hair' washed, and also my skin, I rest myself against Beowulf's chest, easing my head against him. We gather around the campfire; all seem to be missing the number of people that we have lost in the battle of Nelveska. The strange steel thing that defended the place definitely wasn't friendly; we have lost five squires to him. Beowulf strokes my hair gently—I like this. I gently doze off to sleep in his arms…he's so caring. I haven't had a feeling of warmth like this for a long time; and I don't think it's the campfire.


I think it's love…