"The elf. Fingon. And the doctor — horse doctor — Karahalios,"

Someone stumbles past at rapid pace, laughing, and tosses half their drink in the process. Wren stops short, not short enough. The stutter of motion, a rough aggravated sound. Her eyes shut, free hand rises to curl, unwind again.

Breathe deep, kids.

"Karahalios," Evenly, as though neither of them's newly-soaked in wine. "To my knowledge, she has never held a blade."