She seems to perk up at the mention of Diplomacy, and the door swings open a little more. Ol’ Marge shifts, looking back over her shoulder and affording the Cedric-lad a view of a woman. Dark hair, pale skin. Nothing remarkable, save for the sunburst brand.

Door opens further, a sharp snap of movement that catches the old woman off-guard. Shoved, it seems, by the snout of an insistent corgi. There’s not much time for her to be surprised or for Cedric to process the small dog sniffing the air, before there’s a terrible snarl.

Franklin latches onto Cedric’s ankle and wrestles his head side to side, set on pulling the one that smells so dangerous off his feet and away from his person. Marge, one to trust the insight of small angry creatures and to grasp any opportunity to mistrust a human, proceeds to grab a handbag and assist.

Herian doesn’t move to the doorway or stand at all, still sitting, even as the elven man Marge had been speaking with runs out to see the commotion.