[Suzerain of Sheol]

Sombre practically carries her as she makes her way off the field. Her left foot drags uselessly and she leans against his muscled side in helpless weakness. If she had the strength, she would haul herself onto his back and let him carry her away from this place of pain and humiliation.

I have done you proud, have I not, my brother knights? Well are we dubbed the Ordo Humilis.

She hears the barb thrown at her, words meant to wound, but the voice is sourceless, meaningless in the black haze of her wounded thoughts. They signify nothing, anyway. As though she found pride and honor at her ability to murder the best of men. She was a stain upon the august tapestry of this noble company; a rude, illiterate butcher among the highest lords of the land. What husband would even have such an abominable mate, filthy with thoughts of rage? Not the Lord to whom she was wed through Christ, most certainly.

Hearing Kier's voice nearby, she slows her ragged departure, tilts her head up by margins and opens a swollen eye. "I do not... even know where my failure lies this time." The words are a struggle. "I do not... belong here, Kier. Could you... could you help me away? I must be alone."

She tries to look back at the tourney ground, but fails with the throb in her neck. "And my shield, if you could. I seem to have... mislaid it."