She doesn't know his clothing style, but it is familiar enough. As is his accent, not right and yet, not as wrong as everything around her. And milady, he calls her. She is not dressed like one, but she is, she still is a lady, they haven't taken her rank away, and by gods, she will act like a lady.

Delia manages to lift her head, although her bright green eyes are too wide, too red-rimmed in a too pale face for her to be anything other than utterly desperate.

"I," she starts, "would like to be taken somewhere more... quiet. If my new captors would be so kind."

Her voice is very price, or rather, her words are. Her voice itself, that low, velvety purr of a voice, is a trifle harsh with fear.