<div class="floatleft">(http://i1326.photobucket.com/albums/u649/wigglebiscuit/Lydia/HumeFemale_zps9b0dc3da.jpg)</div>The muscles in Lydia's jaw work furiously as the full import of the Count's words sink in. The fire lights in her eyes, as does the color in her cheeks. She is a redhead, after all, with all the stereotypes that implies.<br/><br/>"I beg pardon,<em>Sir</em>, you'll forgive me for wasting your time. You have me at a disadvantage, you see. You, along with the rest of the world, have had the opportunity to observe me in every detail during my training. Had you spent the briefest measure of that time coming to know the first thing about me, you would know that selling out my companions like whores at auction is as despicable as it is unthinkable."<br/><br/>Her words are louder than they need to be, but in her anger, she cannot help the volume.<br/><br/>"I, on the other hand, was forced to judge you on first impressions, so you will forgive me for mistaking you for a gentleman. Yes,<em>Lord Davos</em>, there are Contestants here willing to sell the intimate details of their colleagues for you<em>favor</em>--such as it is, but I decline to mention them by name, as I do not truck with mercenaries."<br/><br/>With that, she turns on a heel and storms away. From the tray she plucks not one, but two glasses of champagne and downs them one after the other. She knows she has acted rashly, but such men are the lowest form of scum in her eyes, and represent all that has gone wrong with the Dungeon. She wastes several long minutes composing herself, and can feel the eyes upon her, both Contestants and Patrons.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">ooc</div><div class="spoiler_body">I'm afraid not Lydia, but I, misjudged the Count's motives. I did not imagine him to be the courtly version of a bookie.</div></div><br/>