[Suzerain of Sheol]

Standing under the glare of the sun, Amélie's pulls back her camail and arming cap, running a hand through her hair and rubbing at the discomfort on her scalp. She checks the fastenings of her armor yet again, conscious of its foreign design among the suits of gleaming plate worn by her peers. The gold-work threading between the overlapping plates of her jack seems garish, pretentious, not to mention unbecoming of a poor knight. It had been a gift passed to her during the crusade, a reward for service and survival from the chapter master, more than she ever deserved, but she'd not dishonor him by giving it away.

"I shall have at least one praying my success from the tiers, then." She manages an actual smile, and slides her camail back into place once more. "Mayhap I might do thee honor. I'll certainly try."

Striding over to Sombre's side, she pulls her helm free from the saddle-bag, wincing at the thought of its weight. It is of little moment, though; the desert sun was far hotter, and she bore that bane amid thirst and starvation, beset by murderers and traitors, and returned alive. Perhaps not unscathed, but alas. To live is to be scathed, and face the scourge of God.

Swinging herself into the saddle, she nods to Kier in salute, and pulls down the lip of the aventail covering her mouth to tell him, "I must away to more worshipful company, though I should be more fit among your own." She lingers a moment longer, growing dour, and murmurs, "Pray for me," before driving Sombre forward.

I wish to win. I do, and how I rue it. Hubris and pride, as Satan should weep. God forgive me, for I shall surely not forgive myself.