The girl seemed... distracted, at best. And clearly uncomfortable, every bump of the wagon carrying the group leading to a wince or a start. But she was pretty, if so fair-skinned as to be almost translucent. And there was an air of something ethereal about her...

"Uh, Lydia," she said, looking more through Sigmund than at him, "of House Lebeda. Pleasure to meet you."

The wagon hit a particularly deep divot in the road and Lydia gripped the seat for dear life, as if she could be thrown from the vehicle at any moment.