One does not imagine a bear can move. They are ponderous things, inevitable - dangerous, but safe. One does not imagine one might snatch a leaping salmon from the very air until it is too late.

Robena has turned so she looms over you. Her hands are up, sweeping her wild and untidy hair brown back behind her, binding it into a functional ponytail. As her hands descend down her body they adjust straps with rehearsed precision. Her axe no longer hangs loose, her shoulder plates are more rigid, the faint layer of rust that dimmed the edges of her lady's crest is knocked clean with a flick of armoured mail. But more than the corrections her face has hardened and her eyes are ablaze. This is no soft and gentle cub any more, no traveling naturalist knight with a nightinggale voice. 

This is a crusader. A warrior of righteousness, a will that would no more suffer evil in this land than she would suffer it in any other. As the lines in her face harden so too do her scars. 

When she asks you, Constance, it is not because she is in any way unaware of the answer. When she asks you it is not as a friend asking for information. The words are ritual, the precursors to violence and devastation, each one filled with fire.

"Who has done this?" said Sir Coilleghille, the finest weapon of war crafted by the land of England.