The steady of the two hands met itself to join deep within one of her pockets, clinking ever so gently a few of the small metal discs. They were as cool as ever to the touch, but were warm to one with the knowing how sellswords earned their keep; money from blood. It always perplexed the aging hunter, her expression shifting her attention away briefly as she thought. The vexing notion that in itself it was a worthless thing as one could not fashion a sword of it, could not feed mouths with it, or even use it to perform most any sanctified ritual. But so many died in its pursuit and for what?

She withdrew at last a few pieces of five, their worn surface telling only a fraction of their tale, stepping forward to set them upon the counter with a faint metal clatter. The greatness of her hand and claws rested on them for a moment, her other arm still and lifeless by her side as she looked to the man while he poured the dark drink into a glass and questioned them. Nostrils flaring with a slight exhale, she at last replied.

"No, I have need of nothing more." Sakaala removed her thickly padded palm, sleeve of her torn ebon robe slipping free of the wooden surface. Three aged coins remained where they were, still and cold.

Stepping back, she kept an eye on the man for a moment more, one living and one cold stare all the same. She gauged him, as did she the others here for a moment before turning and walking to the still sundered door; she wasn't about to turn her back without being entirely sure they knew she was just as wary of them as they were of her...

[@ArenaSnow][@Belwicket][@IcePezz][@Jon Y][@vietmyke][@Zero Hex]