Cassian starts to go for the chair to cool said heels, but then he blinks, thrown.

It’s the first stutter in that otherwise smooth demeanour, tripping right over— well, not the fluency in the language, that’s easy and common enough, but the particular lilt to it. A certain hyper-specific regionality to her speech and idiolect which catches him entirely off-guard for how it doesn’t match the package at all. She looks like a perfectly-coiffed blonde Orlesian duchess and sounds like a fucking pirate.

“Where,” he says, his voice faster and more fluid in his native tongue, a little less stilted around the edges as he’s briefly derailed from the original topic, “did Madame de Cedoux learn to talk like a grizzled old sea dog?”