"Fair enough. That's more or less what I've been doing, so it should be easy." The slip of her accent is escusable - it's not like he's being particularly clear either, one Orlesian word wandering blithely into the next.

There. The edge of something cutting. Hot pain courses through his arm and the surprise of it makes him forearm twitch hard against the strap binding it down. He goes very sharp, teeth snapping as a surge of adrenaline penetrates the fog of...everything else, only to slip through his fingers once on the other side. For a split second, he can hear blood in his ears, sense some flash of fear and the urge to look at what she's doing. Instead, Marcoulf takes another drink from the bottle wrapped tightly in his good hand. He counts the bolts in the door.