Not so very long ago, Gideon would have struggled to imagine a reality where she'd be glad to see Harrowhark. The vast majority of her youthful fantasies had centered around the Reverend Daughter's untimely - and spectacularly unpleasant - demise, preferably by her own hand. She'd have laughed herself into an untimely death if anyone had so much as hinted at the possibility of being glad to see her. But now - despite the twist and snap of unspoken questions in her, the unsettling realisation of just how impossible this reunion scenario ought to be - there's the embarrassing bloom of relief in her chest. There's a gladness at finding her necromancer here, in this alien place, where everything else is strange and entirely unfamiliar.

Besides, what's a cav without her necro? If the powers that be here needed one of them to fulfill whatever bullshit destiny they've been spouting, surely they'd need both.

"I do swords. You do deep dives into tedious necromantic theorems," she says, keeping her slew of clamouring questions firmly at bay and forcing her own movements to remain casual as she slouches over to the dark-clad stick-figure at the desk. Leans in obnoxiously close, close enough for her breath to be felt against the other woman's ear, "Whatcha looking at? An Ode to Bones by Doctor Skelebone? Or something equally as exciting?"