It is, decidedly, shawl weather. Here at the docks, where Alexandrie is painting the pale autumn sky over the wind-whipped greying waters that turn colder every day, it's stepped across the line all the way into cloaks. Every so often she shifts and stamps her feet to warm herself, but the Lady seems more determined to put down the last brush stroke than she is to give in and go inside for the day.

It seems you've caught her right at that moment, for after a final touch and a long moment of staring she lowers her brush and sighs in satisfaction before turning to pack everything away. Or, fumbling, to try to.

"Would you mind unbuckling that case for me?" she turns and asks with a lightly amused smile, "I am afraid my hand has gone numb."