( depending on whom one asks, she is either elizabeth of york, princess of england and ireland. or elysabeth, no surname, daughter of no one. a bastard, lower even than the grubbiest peasant. the disparity is staggering, and yet how she has been treated has varied wildly along with her uncle's changing political situation. the nobles who had supported him have begun to doubt; and now, of late there has been a "prince" across the sea who has vowed to marry her. suddenly, she has become important again. and she feels it, with the grand spread of a feast before her and the music playing in the background.

this is familiar territory; and a very welcome change from the cold stone walls of sanctuary. so when a man seated near her dares to complain about the festivities, she can do no other than raise a brow in curiosity. )

I have heard much worse than he. ( her features smooth out, and she smiles warmly. ) By all accounts, we are being welcomed quite grandly, my lord.

His pitch is not terrible enough to be akin to the wailing which accompanies a funeral dirge.