The twins shared a surprised look—or, as much surprise as Sybil seemed capable of expressing—and then turned their focus back to Quinn. Had she said something wrong? Insulted them somehow? Having spent the lion’s share of her life in a single room, it wouldn’t have been much of a shock for her to have made some sort of social faux pas without realizing it. Could she expect mercy if she had? Or would Casoban treat her like the Euseran media, and see her brief tenure with the CSC ruined before it even began?

Then Cyril’s eyes lit up. “[color=caffbf]Your accent![/color]” he beamed. “[color=caffbf]We thought it was just a face! They said your mother was Casobani, but we figure the Runan accent is so strong, surely—oh! Do you speak any?[/color]”

“[color=55cbcd][i]Con[/i], they would have had her show it off,[/color]” Sybil said, slapping him on the shoulder. “[color=55cbcd]Besides, you hardly speak any yourself.[/color]”

“[color=caffbf]Excuse you, I had to recite a ten minute monologue in Casobani for [i]Le Prince de Solrivie[/i]. For which I won [i]two[/i] awards from the Cultural Institute.[/color]”

“[color=55cbcd]And you forgot it on the ride home,[/color]” she said, rolling her eyes back to Quinn. “[color=55cbcd]Don’t humor him, he’ll never go away.[/color]”

Cyril waved her off with an exaggerated “[color=caffbf][i]Psh![/i][/color]” and then, after rummaging through his pocket for a moment, produced a small handful of different-colored hairbands, and offered them out to Quinn. “[color=caffbf]Take as many as you need, that's quite a lot of hair. I used to have mine down to my back and I found that hard enough to manage. Do you pilot with it like that?[/color]”