Gwenaëlle doesn’t actually laugh outright, but it’s a near enough thing — see: brick, window, etcetera — that the modicum of restraint involved probably doesn’t actually help.

“That wasn’t actually my concern, no,” she says, managing to pull it together— shaking her head, pretty sure that trying to explain the funny part of that really wouldn’t help. It’s so… this woman doesn’t seem younger than her. Hard to tell, with the way she looks. But the degree of reactivity — the leaps to assumption —

maker, is this what she was like to deal with.

“You’re not going to look me in the eye and say if our positions were reversed, you’d put one hundred percent of your faith in a stranger to dedicate themselves completely to keeping you alive if they had the option at some point in that to decide it looked rough and fuck off. Please. There’s a limited number of people I know and like that I’d believe that of.”

She spreads her hands— “But I’m from Orlais. A runaway Tevene mage assuming backstabbing first thing isn’t exactly insane to me.”

It’s what an Orlesian would think, too, which is also part of why she’s not in Orlais.

“I’m not holding you prisoner. Feel free to have a normal conversation with me or fuck off, as you prefer.”