In contrast to some of the more begrudging attendants, Lady Vauquelin had been - somewhat uncharacteristically, perhaps, at least to what's commonly known of her - an enthusiastic and engaged attendee, asking interested questions when given the opportunity and discreetly taking notes otherwise, gold-rimmed spectacles resting upon her rather distinctive nose where she might look over them when looking up, ink on her fingers. She isn't a particular expert on Nevarra or the culture, but it's apparent enough that she's taken the time to learn enough to ask intelligent questions-

She experiences no relief, when the tour takes its turn. A true daughter of the most impractical minds, her first instinct is to protect her notebook; pen and ink lost underfoot with the carved wooden slope she'd been carrying to write upon, a finely made accoutrement that she will regret the loss of later but doesn't think of now while terror closes up her throat.

It isn't that she intends to seek Fingon's aid so much as something reaches for her and she makes a sound that she could never possibly hope to recreate on purpose, stumbles blindly backwards until she collides with him, her spectacles dislodged upon her nose and she doesn't need them for anything but reading, of course, but if she loses them to some dead thing in some underground misery she is going to be so- so-

Clutching her notes to her chest, panicked breaths straining corsetry, she flings her shardbearing hand out in front of her and raises a barrier.

It will not hold long.