Jone takes a careful spoonful, mirroring Gabranth. The desert is sweet, but not overmuch, a gentle sort of sugary flavor that melts pleasingly over her tongue. It mostly distracts her from memories of knives held when she was defenseless, rocks thrown, furniture she was thrown into.

Jone takes another spoonful of the desert-- it really is lovely-- before sitting back and thinking on how to answer. "I agree that wounds in battle are no thing to be ashamed of," she concedes lightly, "but scrabbles to escape, petty squabbling, traps and mistakes... I hold no pride in the evidence of marks."