"Did you?" Teren retorts, and takes one of them with a smirk. "And they're never old enough to please me. Old enough to please me is crumbling bones in the ground." She sips from the wine, rolls her eyes minutely, then sips again. It tastes like the swill from the barrels down at the warden camp, but she assumes this cost a fortune and some. All the more reason to drink more of it.

"I shall be expected to walk about all manner of Warden things tonight," she sighs, "I'm certain the Inquisition is regretting their choice of liaison now, appointing a bitter old shrew as the face of the organization." She sips again. "Or perhaps it was intentional. Keeps people from asking questions."