While difficult to disagree with the general appeal of compliments, there is also power in mystery. One thing is to watch her card through the lackluster fabrics - no jacquard in sight, no doubt - and the other is to one day find her in something that will serve to leave as much of an impression as the first, and be left wondering how.

What this was today was an exception, and one she did not care to repeat. He saw her more vulnerable than most have in a long time, for all her thorns. She'll get over it, but there's a need for an image restored.

She falls in stride beside him, breath clouding the air, and hands tucked into the coat pockets. Carefully, she surveys the street, following his lead. It's a needle-point sort of silence, save for the soft drawl of his voice beside her.

She peers at him, sidelong. "I've lived several lifetimes already," he's asking a difficult question, so she answers the easier part of it first, and keeps her eyes staring ahead of her, until the expanse of white starts to sting. "If you're asking why I was there, I agreed to fight because I was asked to, by someone who probably hasn't begged in centuries." Her words may be harsh, but there is an undercurrent of something that could be concern. She hides it with a scoff. "Saviors of the fucking Continent. It was a massacre."