One who held her peace only to see every single person she knew slaughtered by those that preached so similarly. The English liked to dress up intentions too.

[ It's curt. She has no wish to explain herself to someone already decided. She doesn't offer explanations to anyone anymore. She will not do so now. Not to Galahad, not to Hastings, none of them. Her jaw sets, her face lifts, and she pulls herself in. They have shattered her too much in the last day for this. Pieces of her that are cutting when she tries to pick them for how tightly she grips them.

She turns then, on her heel, clothes in hand. This conversation is done for the time being, she has talked more than she wants to for - the rest of her lifetime, not just today. ]