After all is done, when the bodies have been moved and burned, Herian stands and watches the pyre the loud crackle of orange and blazing yellow embers, the smoke that whips and twists in the air. In her hand she holds the staff that she retrieved from the guardroom, gnarled branches at its head and an ever-burning flame, and she watches, makes herself keep watching, even with the blood still on her hands from moving the bodies.

Walking on the road she tends to keep to herself, keeps quiet, though her head is held high and she walks with shoulders squared. She is every part the knight, with brutally correct posture and a carefully schooled expression. She will not make any keep her company, not after what has transpired, and not when so many of them had seemed so appalled. Not when the child called her mama when she hacked its head from its shoulders.

In a tavern she is, predictably, still silent. She does, however, lay down enough coin to see all her companions can have a drink or two on it, even though she makes no announcement - the barkeep might simply say that she took care of a couple of rounds earlier and not her way, mutter something about not daring to swindle a woman like that, before passing your character their drink. For her part, she sips water, and studies a set of notes that she retrieved in one of the rooms, as if she can glean more from the smeared, illegible parts of the message that eluded her before.