Senna finds the paladin's form as solid as something carved from wood, with the exception of the natural curves she's been granted-- the measure of which, in stark contrast to the taut muscle of her frame, invites speculation that her body itself might indeed be the supernatural product of a shallow, sex-fixated goddess who demanded that even her warriors be lovely.<br/><br/>As the artificer measures, Fallon arches her neck invitingly, splays her fingers over the young woman's wrist, tilts her hips forward invitingly at the measurement of a long-muscled thigh.  She's slipped the padded tunic over her head.  From the waist, she's meagerly covered by a length of tightly-drawn black linen that crosses at her breastbone and ties between her shoulders, baring a long, taut torso and a glimpse of the cleavage of her pert breasts, rising and falling as if in anticipation--<br/><br/>--anticipation, that is, until Senna returns to her records, utterly unimpressed.  The paladin stands agape, her brow slightly furrowed.  She eyes the blanket-covered bulge on the fine bed where the bard has gone into hiding, then looks back over at the note-gathering artificer.  Her teeth click shut and she forces herself back into a posture of composure.  "Fine.  I thank you for your<i>dedication</i>to your<i>work</i>," she says with a slight tremolo, the only hint of her ego's indignation.  "I'll try to find some way to make it up to you."<br/><br/>She picks up her chain shirt and tunic from the chair and stalks out of the room, not bothering to redress.  She trudges down the stairs and slaps the counter before the innkeeper.  "Room."<br/><br/>