Jone has lost the teeth needed for bitter words in the meanwhile. She savors the future, cutting down fat merchants who wasted the potential of states that wished to be free. The image succors her while she bides her time, making her way through clammy dungeons. There people were sold out not by Archadia, as they so feared, but by their own. Archadia's revenge-- and it is that-- on their behalf will almost be sweet.

But mostly, it will be painful.

The proffered cloak breaks Jone from her reverence. It takes her a moment longer than it ought, considering it, before she takes the thing to wrap about herself.

"Thank you," she says out of habit, though she's sure he'll answer with it is duty or some other nonsense. Maybe one day, Jone will become as she dreams, an automaton who functions only on protocol, sickened memories forgotten, disappointment displaced, until she is content only with necessity. Until then, it's all rather silly, isn't it? "I am sorry for whatever hit this causes your dignity to suffer. You will regain it; I am sure."