Robena's reputation marches before her like a herald. Much of it has to do with her most recent exploits, the returning pilgrim humbled and noble, fighting monsters and healing the wounded on her long road back from the holy city of Jerusalem. Over that journey she became quiet, wise, respectful, chivalrous. The holy city had indeed changed her and left behind a gentle giant.

But what a change it had been. 

Things are different when you are invincible. When you are invincible death is your slave and all her works are glorious. When you stand upon the field of Champagne, clad in frail squire's armour, bloody axe held above your head as lady Death holds down three full knights at your feet, the feeling is such that you can only howl. When you are invincible you do not need traps, snares, or patience to hunt a gryphon - you instead charge it in the full light of day beneath an open sky so all can witness who it is Death favours. When you are invincible you can drink any poison and kiss any woman and the spectre of Death looms behind you and smiles at any who would raise objection at your conduct. When you are invincible you stand upon the threshold of the underworld like holy Paeter and with a gesture decide who goes in ahead of you.

Robena Coilleghille was not invincible. But for a while she had been able to borrow it from one who was.

Countess Alitel Sandsfern had always been invincible, but hers had been the immortality of fire rather than the might of blood as Robena's had been. Wild, untamed, unteachable for she knew all things already - that fire had grown so hot that it was judged that the only possible remedy would be the most holy site in the world. It was thought that only Bloodless Xristos himself might be able to calm that fire.

If he had tried, he had failed.

She lights up the room. Her red-orange hair flows in curling locks, lower than her shoulders and brighter than a forest fire. Deep crimson scales mark her neck and ungloved hands, armour beneath armour. A flick of eyes as alight and deadly as the Persian fire-god is enough to steal one's entire vocabulary, a simple standing motion upon taloned feet is enough to root one as surely as an oak, and a deadly smile is enough to stop one's heart.

"My... lady," Robena breathes as she gazes upon her sworn liege who she had thought lost to the curse of the crossroads.

A kiss from those lips would be enough to render her invincible again.