[ Instead of acting on the base instinct to cock her bow immediately, Guinevere quirks an eyebrow, releasing her bow to fold her arms across her chest. She keeps the cup cradled close - her gesture is defensive, it's undeniable - although she recognises that hostility will serve her no better here. From the man's obscure dress and general demeanour she'd say he's not a native of the land ...

A kindred spirit, perhaps. Time will tell. ]

I've survived far worse, I assure you.

[ The corners of Guinevere's mouth quirk up into a wry smile. It's elusive, just guarded enough, and her smirk gives away even less, but then she cocks her head just a little with ease of confidence. ]

You won't join in the festivities yourself?

[ Festivities. Yeah, forgive her for being sceptical. ]