"I see to it that it is so," answers the elezen, and his voice is not defensive, but neither does it brook accusation. There is a little pride underlying it all, despite himself, a satisfaction hard-earned. He does concede, "As much as can reasonably be spared. Granted, providing protection to the gatherers supplying Ishgard's restoration has been wisely deemed of paramount importance, so I wouldn't consider it a difficult task. What little the soldiers of the Diadem lack, Ishgard herself lacks, as I understand it."

He smiles faintly, sightless eyes flickering elsewhere as though in a brief daydream, or memory. "We have come a long way in such a short time." His attention seems to return to his new companion. He would ask questions in turn, but he finds himself thrown off-balance. The Lord Commander is well out of place here, especially alone, and whatever dress he has donned, it is a far cry from his normal finery. Gwyneire cannot parse the situation, and wishes neither to offend, nor to jeopardize aught - if something might be jeopardized to begin with.

The elezen wonders if he isn't growing too used to the politicking of the High Houses, to be so suspicious. Maybe even the Sea of Clouds is not far enough from the spires of Ishgard.