Lucressia had to admit, that was more than she had hoped for; the shock on the mage's face melted away into grief, wet tears streaming down her cheeks, and Lucressia nodded, once, satisfied. Then she schooled her own face, and the transformation was fast; it might give Elsa some clue as to how Lucressia navigated a world where women were expected to be meek and demure, and not hoydenish and bloodthirsty, as Lucressia was consistently proving herself on this night. She only thought for a moment, before beginning to create the mask of pious, careful concern that a Chantry sister well ought to have. "Follow my lead," she instructed, "and if you don't think you can lie convincingly, just cry and seem miserable."
Her voice's cadence had even changed; it was softer, lower, she spoke more slowly and gently. Her eyes tended to slip downwards, instead of looking Elsa straight on in the face, the way Lucressia—the real Lucressia—would. Her posture was shifted, too; she reached out and wrapped an arm around the mage's shoulder, barely actually touching her but making an appearance of it, and started walking onwards. "Don't stop unless he hails us," she instructed in a whisper, and then she was, instead, whispering vague encouragements. They were even, mostly, of the right religious tone and content, especially if you didn't listen too hard. She started to guide Elsa down the hall towards the Templar.