The brook_woman turns fully, clay jar still in hand, water trickling over her fingers. She looks Wren over the way an experienced person examines something that does not quite add up — not alarmed, just appraising. Her gaze travels the oversized armour, pauses at the breastplate's faded sun-sigil, then rises to Wren's face, which is doing its considerable best to look older than it is. A long pause. The stream argues with its stones. "You're not Aldric," the old woman says at last. Not a question. She sets the clay jar on the bank and straightens — slowly, deliberately, old bones that have learned patience — and looks at the sun-sigil again. Something shifts behind her eyes. Not grief, exactly. Recognition. "What happened to the knight?" Her voice has gone quiet and careful, the way you go careful around a door you are not entirely certain you want opened.