He looks like he'd be the type to lumber, between the load-bearing posture and the perpetual expression of a man internally bemoaning the state of his knees. But Yseult's been disabused of that notion in the past--she recalls a Venatori guard falling to his knife before he'd had a chance to register their presence in the corridor, dispatched as efficiently as she might have. The prickling lightning-storm sensation of magic flashing past carries echoes of the same place, sends a rush of adrenaline racing up her spine.

She dodges another swing of the red lyrium blade, likewise faster than it ought to be, and then drops at the shout. The Templar roars as the flames ignite, arms swung wildly, and she hacks at the back of a knee before rising to backpedal out of immediate range. She catches Flint's eye and gestures to the rail. Surely this thing won't float.