The Heavens cry! Rosalia's irrational end justified by ambition!
I trotted along, mounted to my ginormous horse like usual, glancing around the place moments at a time. I found myself in a village leading up to a small capital of sorts, tagged with a tall flag, Rosalia's flag. The people looked on at me as my horse paced through. My horse was a jet black beauty with well cared locks, and of an enormous proportion comparable to an elephant. The saddle was a fine Elven craft, much like my robes, but unlike my robes, had a good comfort balanced with battle efficiency and durability.
My robes, on the other hand, were ceremonial. They were mourning robes. I was mourning the needless death of Rosalia. I still pitied her. I knew there was something wrong with her, that there was something more to it than an ambitious woman with an artificial arm, and a forbidden martial arts style.
Rosalia's martial arts style