Loka held up her hands in mock surrender, strolling to Gregor's side but unable to stop her lips twisting into a rueful little smile.  This might be easier than she thought.

[i]He did say please,[/i] she admonished herself.  [i]We must reward that.  And we do need real food.[/i]

"Of course," she said aloud, "I said I would follow your instructions." She smiled, adjusting her hat another inch in the windowpane, "And I think I like this one."

[hr]

"I was only looking.  I was imprisoned, you know."

The restaurant was bright, spacious, twinkling with faceted polished glass and uncountable white candles.  It was a feast for the eyes, but colorless, calculated, without true life.  

Gregor, through some subtle means, had secured them a small, slightly more private table in a shaded alcove, a place where they could see without, so much, being seen.  Though they drew second glances from some of the patrons -- who found reasons to look away as they met eyes with the hardened nobleman -- the staff were trained like veteran fighters, and they never wavered as they glided between the tables like immaculate, dead-eyed swans.

Silverware clinked and clattered against exquisite porcelain dinnerplates and the low murmur of polite conversation rose over the subtle music of a string quartet.  The air roiled with the aroma of a hundred different mouth-watering dishes, the perfumes, powders and sweat of the highly-bred patrons, the scent of dry, dying flowers in their perfect glass flutes.  Loka took slow, regular breaths, trying to expand her senses and control the torrent of sensation at the same time.  The influx, stale as it was, though welcome, was making her faintly dizzy.  In the Templar's abyss, there had been nothing.  No light.  No scent.  No touch but her bonds and no sound but the muffled suffering of broken creatures that were no longer human.

She took a strong mouthful of olive wine from a snowflake-thin drinking glass, savoring the heavy taste and pushing the memory from her mind.

"They do not know who they see when they look at you," she said, idly, resting her cheek on her fist and gathering the last of her food, gravy-soaked roast partridge and herb-baked potatoes, to the corner of her plate with feigned lack of appetite.  "...This is good.  If you instruct me to have dessert, I will of course obey."

She laced her fingers together and lowered her voice, watching the immaculately-mannered patrons set about their suppers and conversations, the muted, blurry color of their aspects and interactions.  

"Where are we bound next?" she asked, softly, "...What sort of 'threats' would have them think someone like you will need someone like me?"