<i>I hate this Maker-forsaken hole</i>, Jeanne mused to herself in secret as she maintained a stalwart facade, standing just a few paces behind Duke Leland's shoulder like the good attack-dog that she was. It was something that came naturally to her; not so close as to look like a doting mother looming over her patron, yet still close enough to instantly close the gap and defend him from a threat at a moment's notice. It was a tight-rope routine that all chevaliers walked in their duties- appearing both visible and invisible, intimidating any threats with their presence while also blending into the scenery as just another decoration among many. Drawing no more notice than hollow armor on a stand until actually needed.<br/><br/>But that wasn't what had the woman gritting her teeth at the moment. No, that was a painless endeavor... This tavern, on the other hand, was a full-frontal assault on all of her senses. The duke's indiscretions were the very definition of an open secret amongst the nobility of Orlais, and as his guardian, she spent enough time in this wretched backwater dive that she was no longer confident that the stench could be washed off at this point. Duke Leland was a pariah amongst the upper-class at this point, shamed beyond all reproach and banished to the outskirts of Orlesian society to cater to his interests. Such was her fate that he was forced to mingle with the commonfolk regularly to get his jollies, dragging her down the social ladder right beside him and into the gutter. It was truly a testament to her endless reserves of self-control that she hadn't smothered the bastard in his sleep just to end the disgrace.<br/><br/>But, for better or worse, her honor forbade such a thing, so there she stood; stoic and unwavering, in her brilliant silver armor with a gilded sword strapped to her hip as she glowered at the doorway. It was integral to make a good first impression on any potential members of this expedition... to instantly convince them that she was not one to be trifled with. It was truly a lost art, the ability to convey such an intense impression through stance and body-language alone. But it was also her duty, to immediately and unequivocally dissuade any threats to the duke's life before it had a chance to bloom. That was the ideal, at least. And if that didn't work, she was fully confident in her ability to draw<i>la Joyeuse</i>from its scabbard before her opponent could inflict any harm on her patron. Like a duelist catching an apple.<br/><br/>"<span style="color: Magenta">Shall I fetch the next applicant, Your Grace</span>?" Jeanne finally inquired of the duke, only speaking up once she was absolutely certain that her offer would not qualify as an interruption. Even disgraced as he was, Duke Leland was still her better in the eyes of society and demanded a certain amount of reverence on that alone.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>