Mushira Ahmad. The name makes Lancelot's police instinct wonder if there was some religious or racial aspect to this whole thing too, but he pushes the thought aside. No need to project human issues onto something supernatural too quickly.

So he tries to focus, letting out a slow breath as he does so. He can definitely feel magic on the head, although picking apart the threads of it is more difficult. The fae magic is there, if more subtle, but there's something else too. Something that makes his skin prickle. A sense of -- something, something peculiar that's making crawling over him and he feels angry about. Not angry, no, angry is the wrong word but at the same time he feels like it's increasingly difficult to move, to breath even. Trapped? Something --

Lancelot's frown creeps deeper as he concentrates, but equally the odd sense of alarm seems to be doing something else. Around him, bits of Faolan's office seem to slowly lift themselves and hang a few inches in the air.