In a different area, a pale shadow watches silently, long ears flattened, white hair braided neatly, the bound end thumping against her shoulders. As many as laughingly call her the Lady, a few know her by another name - the White Fox, who has killed, and some say, has betrayed her own. Now she stands in prisoner's rags, sharp features impassive, foxish ears flat. Many of her fellow prisoners have learned to read that expression as distaste, having seen it frequently enough, the only sign of her dislike of this place she shows, the rest kept under tight control. The same tight discipline and never-absent courtesy have stood her well in this place - while the guards are hardly fool enough to imagine her harmless, she is rarely bruised, hungry or cold. Not liked. No one knows her well enough to 'like' her.<br/>In this, there must be some opportunity, something the guards have missed. Lorne's looking for it - although at the moment, all she is seeing is the restlessness of her fellows, the smugness of the Warden, and the cold efficiency of the guards. All familiar, all known and catalogued. The guest of honour .. and the timing ... her green eyes narrow, under the fringe of white. The corner of her mouth quirks upwards, and a couple of the men nearest her look a bit torn. Move away, or stick close to the Lady?