It's two days before Dorothea is approached by one of the gardes. She's done what's expected of her, worked the jobs she's been asked to work until her body ached, ate her meals and slept, so she doesn't know what the man could want when he picks her out of the crowd.

"His Grace wants you in his office," the garde says, and Dorothea balks.

"I'm hardly presentable."

"He didn't specify that you be presentable."

"Then he also didn't specify that I should come in smelling like engine grease, either. Give me a few moments to freshen up and I'll be right along."

Perhaps he's not used to that kind of audacity, or maybe he's not paid enough to care, but he sighs and waves her off. Dorothea bathes as quickly as possible, slipping into the clean(ish) skirt and blouse she's been provided and returning to the guard as promised. She has no cosmetics herebut her skin is clean and her hair combed neatly. First impressions are important, after all.

At the door to the office in the heart of the Fortress, the garde stands back and nods his head. Dorothea still hasn't figured out all the protocols of this place, but when presented with a door, you knock.

As soon as a voice from within beckons her to enter, Dorothea squares her shoulders and holds her head high, as if it were her office she's about to walk into.

"I understand that my presence was requested?" she calls out breezily, closing the door behind her and casting her eyes around until they land on the man behind the desk. Oh. He's the warden--the man who had so easily disarmed those combatants the other day. What could he want her for? She hadn't done anything wrong.

"Is there something I can do for you?" she asks, her fear only evident in the fact that she stays by the door until he summons her forward.