This is not Mercymorn. It wears her skin, sure, but it isn't her. Now that she has a moment to see it, to feel it, she knows for certain that she's talking to somebody-or-thing else. And whoever it isn't doesn't recognize her, on top of it all. The expression on her face drops, her eyes narrowing and her brow furrowing more than she'd prefer.

"You were always such a kidder," she says, but this absolutely has no pleasantry behind it. "To forget the Saint of Fealty herself. What was it you called me once? The only wretch among the Emperor's entire foetid cadre you'd consider feeling bad about throwing into the stoma?" She presses a hand to her chest and feigns honor. "It touched my heart to hear something so sweet come from those poisoned lips. So," she says, getting back to the core of things—and ignoring the rest, because her own sanity relies on a leaning pillar of lies that the thing puppeting Mercymorn's body should be careful not to tip over.

"Our beloved Emperor. He should live here, yes? Kindly point me in his direction."