It was somewhat against both her inclination and her better judgment that she did not power down and turn away from the sensation of a signature near her. But it had a shape and size that had her - also against her inclination - compelled to reluctantly reach out, and make sure that she was not in some way necessary.

She probably wouldn't be necessary, she reasoned. Maybe they would even be unpleasant and surly, and send her on her way so that she wouldn't have a lingering feeling of guilt that they might have run on a couple more blocks and directly into the jaws of a youma.

With this pleasant hope in mind - and it was a shame Joy had never gone in for the whole Manifestation thing - she directed her steps towards the unknown ally.

A week or two of actual sleep and some attempts at regaining a hold on her personal life had gone a long way to offset her tumultuous feelings, and she was decidedly a less messy, more put-together version of herself tonight than she had been in quite some time, the whip beginning to feel comfortable in her hand in a way that it had not up to this point, her carriage a little more upright, and her usually-queenly demeanor even more turned towards one of aloof self-possession that would have been more at home on someone with a few more inches on her, to give her the ability to look down her nose at people in the way that she seemed instinctively and benevolently inclined to do.

Gouvernail had taken to calling her a little saint, not from virtue but from miracle-working, and while he had meant it, undoubtedly, in that vein of mild sarcasm he was given to, it had made her a little cocky.

Well. Cockier.