All of Europe can be seen upon her boots. All of evil's monsters can be seen in her scars. They say that learning to see the faerie realm is a matter of perspective, and so it is with Robena's beauty. Look at her one way and all you can see is the weariness and the fruits of battle. Look at her another and there is strength and nobility shining like the full moon through the clouds. She wears silence more heavily than her bearskin cloak, and when she speaks it takes a long moment to realize that that pleasant, strange accented curl of air had meaning beyond the mere beauty of it.

Her voice is silver. It should be a growl, it should sound bitter or weary or old beyond its years. Instead it's the voice of a singer, a voice she did not have when she screamed and fled from the snipping pincers of a crab, threatening to tell your mother, the duchess - even the king if necessary - about your crimes. Where did she acquire such a voice, such a musical rhythm? Did she bargain for it from a faerie, was it a gift from the Lord for her virtue, was her throat healed by drinking holy water from the temple-fount of Jerusalem? If ever there was a voice for speaking to the hills of England, this was it.

The words come into focus only belatedly and after much effort. 

"You've... grown," she said. 

She felt like she should apologize. Whatever she'd done to snuff that radiant smile. What had it been?

"I'm glad to see you again, Constance," she said, for she was still too sincere to let doubts still her tongue. "When I saw the tower... I was worried about you."

*

As you well know, I have spent many seasons in travel. I mark experience towards a Right of the Wider World, and I return with news from afar. Tell me what it is.

As for confidence? Within one of Apricot's saddlebags are contained stones and minor relics from the Temple of the Exsanguination in Jerusalem. I have carried those holy souvenirs across a continent, through storms and frost and werewolves and river fordings. No hand or spirit was able to part me with those pieces of the Holy Land, although many tried and tried desperately. Just this morning, in preparation for the festival, I hauled the whole wretched sack into the church and turned it over to the priest, receiving in turn his blessing and his gratitude. 

I have not yet laid down all my burdens, nor have I resolved the heaviest, but this one at least is [i]done[/i].