[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/zQXUPoA.png[/img]
[sub][@Psychic Loser][/sub][/center]
Serenity shook her head, but it wasn't as if Dame Katerina was looking to begin with.

The song faded from her heart, replaced once more by the crackling of flames, the death-twitches of the beast, and the false remorse of bandits and bastards.

She wrenched her hatchet from the griffin's skull, inspecting its edge for nicks with a disinterested gaze.

Not her kill.

...

Resplendent!

Serenity paraded alongside the rest of the Iron Roses, her armor gleaming once more in the brilliance of sunlight. She wore her helm still, but with her visor up, the knight's brilliant eyes matched the sky itself, an azure offset by flaxen bangs and fringes that framed her noble face. A knight was a lion, and a lion had to look [i]good[/i]. Ever-gallant, she smiled at the commoners that had flocked to enjoy their victory march, her gaze just focused enough that it could be construed that she was looking at an individual while she swept through the collective. The people of Aimlenn had reason to celebrate, after all. A flawless victory over the Bandit King, even with an inexperienced commander and the retirement of most of the old guard prior to this, was cause to celebrate.

It was good that the corpses of the fallen were wrapped up and placed discretely in a separate wagon. Better that healing magic allowed for injuries incurred to be hidden beneath sparkling plate and polished boots.

Sir Rickert was dead. Dame Shanil was missing.

A flawless victory, nonetheless.

Off on the other side, Serenity caught a glimpse of the griffin's plumage, pinned to Sir Fleuri's helmet. Loyalty to Reon, and loyalty to the Iron Rose? No, beyond noble pretensions, it appeared the Flower remained.

A smirk surfaced. It was a bright day, but still, it was cold.

...

[b]"Dame Morianne."[/b]

The approach had been sudden, a storm broiling into being from once-clear skies. Serenity had waited just long enough for the knights to scatter before she strode towards the elven troubadour, cornering her before slamming a hand against the wall, inches away from Morianne's elongated ears.

A thunderclap, with a gaze like frozen lightning, though her facade remained composed still.

[b]"You are a talented artist and a caster of repute,"[/b] the younger knight spoke, her voice low. [b]"But I've no interest in being the object of your spellsongs. Save them for someone who...possesses more idealism than battle sense."[/b] A pause, a slight loosening of expression. It would be easy enough to envision the most appropriate candidates, under such descriptions. [b]"Please."[/b]

If there was nothing of import that Morianne had to say, Serenity would retract her extended arm, take a step back, and smile.

[b]"Ah, and [i]good kill[/i]."[/b]

With that, she spared not one more glance as she strode for the smithy.