Hild smelled them long before she heard them.

[i]Kin.[/i] Hild's lips twitched as fond memories made themselves known. Of men whose steps were heavy, their bodies clad in hard plate and their faith as sure as the iron of their arms, upon her own arms. Grim folk, reliable folk, and frequent companions in her hunt for all things unsavory and dark and [i]defiling[/i].

They carried with them certain scents. An underlining of their namesake, but that grave soil freshness was distant. The smell of corpses was a closer relative, unsurprising with the nature of their work, but overpowering it all was incense that cut through the foulness and diversified scent portfolio of the basic rabble from which she was distanced, and the touches of pine and lemon. Welcome relief to her nose, and a sign that perhaps she wasn't the only one who wished to scour away the unclean air.

Or, Hild noted with an upwards tilt of her head, her ear turned to the noise of a procession, perhaps it was just the usual procession. The metal march was a poor choice in the soaking downpour, but Hild was willing to admit that they were all rather caught in ceremony. Her iconographic mantle repelled water surprisingly nicely, but even it was beginning to soak.

Despite the darkness of the world around her, Hild felt no surprise when one of those men of iron approached her; her ears tracked his metal sounds, the few short steps he had to take to close the distance, and her nose tracked his lemon scent. [i]Know your manners.[/i] Hild turned her head in the general direction of the Knight of the Grave; that she could not and would never be able to see him did not matter. She tilted her head somewhat downwards, accounting for the lower area in which his voice originated. Not the tallest man, but she was not the shortest woman either.

"Hail, good sir." she greeted, nodding her head softly. His voice was kind, whilst hers was... Neither cold nor heated. Simple and courteous, as she preferred with those not deserving of her ire. "Your presence is welcome in this endeavor." [i]As is your scent[/i], she did not say. She was given to understand such remarks were oftentimes unsettling.

Her hand tightened around her water-slicked staff as she tested it upon the ground beside her. It gave easily under the pressure, and so she prodded once, twice more, and slowly followed in its movement. The wet earth was a nightmare, but not insurmountable. In the midst of sidestepping closer to her kin-in-faith, she spoke. "I hail from no standing convent," The thought was as bitter as ever, "But serve our lord all the same. As do you, in your assemblage."

She planted her staff, and steadied herself with it once more, standing straight and with pride. The rain beat down on her, but she knew better than most the importance of posture.