[ none of the words presented register with much meaning to him, studying her with a carefully blank expression on his face, his gaze briefly flickering to her sword. it's an odd choice for a purported nun, as is the facepaint and the less than pious language. perhaps the only thing that makes sense are the atrocious robes. laurent himself is tightly laced in the high-collared aristocratic clothing that covers as much skin as possible, dark blue and gold, his boots to his knees, a similar fuck-off sword at his hip, though one that matches his trim stature. ]

You don't have the demeanor to be a slave. You'd be put on the cross and flogged within a day. [ maybe on laurent's orders. but this world is a far cry from vere, and these punishments, along with treacherous palace life, seem far away. at least nuns are celibate. his skin is already crawling. although — no, there's no way she is a proper nun. no way at all. ] You need a sword to commune with your gods?

[ and because the sound is absolutely unbearable, he reaches into his jacket and extracts an exquisite square of cloth, satiny blue and embroidered with a golden starburst. he normally uses it to clean his sword, but it's free of blood and therefore a perfectly acceptable handkerchief. ]

Stop this. You bring shame on your house, which I normally would find amusing except that you're sitting so close to me.