With enough to do in Nevarra that the room is empty, Gwenaëlle nevertheless wastes no time once the door is closed behind them in digging through her luggage - with remarkable purpose - because just as they've returned to the inn on an errand, so might anyone else, even before one considers the limited window of opportunity. Both more and less time than she imagined.

Nevarra's autumn is warmer than what she's accustomed to, and velvet is hardly ideal to take out into a surprise venture into the outdoors, but nevermind that: she decided weeks ago to save it for this, and she's not going to be put off by mere unsuitability. Undressing herself has always been a bit easier than getting laced back up, and she's already got her bodice half-undone, a hitherto unworn gown spread out on the bed in a shade of chocolate brown velvet that looks plain, upon first glance.

Less so, when the pleats spread as she finds her way into it and the silk embroidered panels - gold thread over green silk - flare, making immediately apparent why it was Gwenaëlle had been so ready with the design for the tapestry. She'd already spent weeks working on these, presumably, when the thought entered her head: different enough for plausible deniability, or simply the entitlement of Orlesian nobility to take whatever they see for their own, but a clear mimicry of his finest clothes from home. Even the silhouette is more Mirkwood than Orlais, the skirt heavier than elven-make but the line of the gown slimmer to her body, not puffed out like an Orlesian pastry, the cuffs coming in points to her knuckles.

“What do you think? I can ride in it.”