Bryn scans the horizon constantly as she rides by, the gelding she rides seeming content to walk the shadowy edges of the road where she leads it.  The dappled horse-- well-bearing, but clearly not for war-- shows little urgency about catching up, nor does the paladin on its back.  She looks ahead and back up the line of road they've traveled, quickly head-counting their allies for the dozenth time today.<br/><br/>Her slate-gray cape with its silvery-white raven, draped from her pauldrons over the back of her matte-coated plate armor, stirs and drapes freely for a moment as she pivots in the saddle.  A young paladin still, Bryn's eyes are ancient in a way, as they've journeyed beyond the breakers of sadness into the shoals of acceptance of some great loss, or some forlorn dream that almost came to be.<br/><br/>Without undead to seek, or books to read, or the lap of a like-hearted silent soul to sit quietly upon, she seems rather stoic and melancholy... perhaps more than usually observed of this retainer of the macabre Queen's choosing.