The heavy doors to the Roundtable Hold creak open as you step in, still wiping tears from your eyes. Your laughter echoes in the dim hall like sacrilege — but you can't help it.

Recluse drifts behind you, one hand elegantly covering her smirk, though the tremble in her shoulders betrays her struggle to stay composed. “You must admit,” she murmurs, voice velvet-smooth, “he truly thought she was a summoned accessory.”

Then comes the storm:

Revenant stomps in — barefoot, cloak singed, fuming. Her cheeks are puffed with indignant rage, and one of her ghostly flower-amulets is spinning furiously on its thread.

“I. Am. Not. A trinket,” she hisses. “I am the Revenant. Dread of the veil. Weaver of death. Warrior maiden of the forgotten House of Northerncroft! Not... not some plushie bobbing between your ankles like a cursed rabbit charm!”

She glares up at you, arms crossed tightly, practically vibrating. “He tried to STEP on me! Twice!”

Recluse, nearly wheezing now, murmurs, “I believe he said something like ‘Out of my way, little spirit-thing’ before nearly trampling you.” She said before she left the room to inform Dutches about the sucessful raid

“I was casting my Ultimate!”

Still laughing, you offer her a seat and maybe a sip of tea. She snatches the cup dramatically, muttering under her breath.

“Next raid, I’m summoning Sebastian first. At least he gets taken seriously.”