"I would say your good or ill will little concerns me, but I'm certain you're aware we would not have employed you, if we thought you futile." She hovers for the moment, drifts from place to place, as if she seeks to carve out her own space, to steal back her bearings.

"I seek... yes. I suppose." She laughs, trains her eyes on the man, the necromancer. "Sir, I beseech you. I am only a woman frail." And barely containing the start of her laughter. "May I bare myself to you, in all my truths and my unworthiness? Accounting for your discretion?"