Out-of-place though he seemed, Arven didn't want to be too conspicuous, so endeavored not to gaze too long at each window, glancing away every now and again to look vaguely at the estate. The well-tended path, the catches of blue sky through the tree branches, the sight (after a double-take) of a little wren, who had no more been spotted before she hopped out of the tree and onto the grass, like a girl from a sinking boat onto the bank.

He did not recognise Porphyria Dempsey in anything but the voice, and perhaps the sardonic nature of her tone. Arven had found this charming when they'd met on the Black Lake, but now he thought it insensitive to smile. So he remained impassive, though dropped lightly to a knee so he was no longer looming above her like some lone redwood tree.

"You, Miss Dempsey", replied the adventurer with honesty. "I've come to confirm for myself that you have a line of noble healers and curious warlocks queuing to rid you of your alleged predicament."

But there was no such line. Of this Arven did not approve.