Gale's hands had already been half-raised by the time the pale elf ordered for them to keep their distance— he glances between Dorothea and her assailant as he stills himself, setting his jaw unhappily. Rather a poor way for their already unfortunate venture to progress, but he won't have one of his new companions' throats slit as a result of his own impulse. Shadowheart seems to feel the same, her expression hard and irate as she lowers her mace.

Dorothea, as it turns out, is more than capable of aiding herself, though he doesn't much like the fact that she'd had to. Gale relaxes only slightly once she's back on her feet and there's distance between herself and the stranger, scowling in the elf's direction.

"Considering that I doubt your position is any better than any of ours, I'm not so sure you can afford to be making enemies at the moment." Gale recognizes the elf's accent, frowning. "I would expect someone born and bred in Baldurian high society would know better how to treat a lady."

Apologies aren't quite enough, but he supposes none of them are at their best at the moment. The wizard glances towards the opera singer, concerned.

"Are you alright?"

Meanwhile, Shadowheart seems to be looking the pale elf up and down, scrutinizing, her mouth set into a hard line. "If he's like us, then he could be of use."