"I place trust... in my understanding of Niall, and my capacity for managing difficult circumstances."
Her face is better when animated by laughter, by amusement of any sort at all. Too broad a smile will do ghastly things to her scar, of course, but something is necessary, lest she seem a colourless winter thing, all thin-boned angles and mean about the mouth. It was a steady gaze, all raincloud pale, that had settled upon the other woman; it was a subtle cooling of her features, of her manner -
"I do not hold with breaking a thing so that it will be docile to my wants. I do not hold with forcing a thing unless the need is urgent - and sera, here you sit this moment, mn? By - the grace of Niall," and it is a narrow smile; it is already passing. "Understand, Glour’eya, that I share your hatred for - terrors - "
Here. Here is where it stops. As abruptly as that, with a subtle straightening of her spine and the cool, long watch of her eyes, and simply because they have reached a point at which she does not care to explain herself further.
"They cannot be seen." This is how the Marshall begins, when she chooses to begin again at all: echoed words all edged with quiet curiosities, and a sip from the cup to warm the throat and loosen its words. Perhaps Gloria will not wish to answer a swordswoman's curiosities - not after that, not after that sudden, firm silence.
She asks the questions anyway.
"And to examine them closely - that is 'dissection', yes? - to examine them closely is forbidden. They are in every sense remote," and it's the cup for her lips then instead of words; it's soft steam to warm her cheeks and smooth ceramic for her palms, and the everywhere scent of tea-leaves and subtle spice. "And I mean to ask if they would actually have you eat sands, but there is a more important thing, I think."
And it is inevitable but so unfair, that the seamstress would make such an offer, such a precious assurance - an adventure - only to discover the swordswoman's lips slightly clenched in memory of it. That she would be answered not with delight but the tiniest shake of the head and a small, tight smile. That when she speaks it is not to approve of the notion and not even to thank her for it, but to echo Gloria's own words:
"'For in Pursuit, we are given purpose.'"
A thing which resonates. A thing which she cannot help but explore. "I like it. I do not know that I understand it. But all the same I wonder - "
A grey-eyed glance at last.
"What do you pursue?"