Filth, something in her hisses as she takes one last sip and drains her cup. Flesh-hungry, grave-robbing, memory-desecrating filth. She's far too poised, even roiling with old hurts and hatreds, to let so much as a hint of her true feelings come to light. The alcohol and her temper bring a beguiling flush to her cheeks, and she uses that without so much as a second thought. She lets her eyes fall shut and shapes her smile into something just a shade less shy.

Eader, wasn't he? That's fine. It simply makes things easier on her.

She sets her cup down and stands in a single graceful motion. If he thinks that she's some type of traveling lady of the night, that's fine. She had killed plenty of men who had presumed they had some sort of right to her body, and even if this is the first time she has actually encouraged that indignity it changes nothing. Come morning, he'd be dead in the streets, and she would find time to take a trip back to her old village and present that sword at the altar her grandfather had built for their departed masters.

"It's not far at all," she mentioned. "The inn with the peony-pattern on the sign down the street." She begins walking without looking back, save for casting him one last glance over her shoulder as she turns away. She keeps her pace slow and smooth, folding her hands in front of her to keep them from twitching towards her stock of needles and poisons.

When she reaches the inn, and then her room, she doesn't bother turning the lights on after opening the door.