More powerful than a head on a spike makes Gwenaëlle's mouth tighten, an expression that lingers as she casts a dispassionate eye over the assembled elves who could — in her opinion — feel free to apologise more sincerely to him any time they like, though she neither says so nor expects they will. She says, “Great, we're now relying on the strict reasoning capacity of someone who was shit at that in the first place,” and

that, at least, is not exactly unfamiliar when she'd pulled approximately none of her punches when she felt Herian needed to hear something during their years of friendship. Whether it's entirely essential right now is another story, and her tone hasn't changed at all. Maybe the next thing she says is more unsettling for the flat, matter of fact delivery,

“We may have to test their theory on that spike thing, when we meet these knights. Guilfoyle, make a note; I want at least twelve spikes before that happens.”

That it's going to, obviously, goes without saying. He inclines his head in acknowledgment, his gaze not moving from the tableau in front of them.

Considering that matter settled at least for now,

“Right now, I need somewhere to work, a basin of water, and clean cloths. Decide amongst yourselves whether someone is making that happen here or if we're leaving now.” No, there are not other options on the table.