There was deep truth in what Tarden witnessed as the leonine figure was what could only be described as disfigured and hideous; obvious tales of battle that hadn't set well. It was remarkable to imagine just what could do such a thing to a monstrous being as her, but any veteran of strife would not need even dwell on the telltale scarification. They were distinctly the old wounds of blades past, men's blades at that, as they had not the keening of an elven sword or the crudeness of orc steel. Fitting was it however, seeing that monsters were often a thing to be vanquished. Whatever case the beastly mercenary's was, she wore it on her sleeve.

And wear it she did as she kept her eyes upon the bound man as he departed for a few moments, turning her attention now to the barkeep, her looming figure neared the wooden counter and tapped a deathly claw upon its surface. She knew she had his awareness before, but the mithral armored woman wished to inform him she had need of something. For now, she feigned disinterest in the exchange between the three at the table of their former enemy, instead looking in the time she waited to the knight who conducted himself with all the dignity he had before. In his own way, Hepburnberg impressed her as he sat, buttering another side of his bread while remaining quiet and to himself - just as he had been earlier on this day.

She watched this for but a moment, before acknowledging the dwarven man as he was undoubtedly aware of her presence now.

"Do you have boiling water, tavernkeep?" Sakaala said, her mighty tone far softer and less forceful than the night before.

The powerful upper half of her relaxed as she exhaled, muzzle flaring ever so subtly when she finished her words. She strove, in part now because the environment was less tense, to avoid making herself any more a menace than she already was. She did not need to emphasize the point she was as seasoned and as serious as she looked - their imagination would do the rest, surely after the brief and silent exchange she had with the cloth-bound man who returned from the upstairs. His hand wrapped about the worn metal of a flagon of mead, but he never ceased moving, proving to pass her by on the way to the door.

[@ArenaSnow][@Belwicket][@IcePezz][@Jon Y][@The Fated Fallen][@vietmyke][@Zero Hex]