No longer dripping, but still very self-conscious in her half-dressed state, Niccola made her way towards the bar, eyes downcast and a furious blush on her cheeks. She is vaguely aware of the many goings on around her; other patrons seem very engrossed in their conversations, some very serious. There is not as much frivolity as she normally expected at taverns, but then the whole situation was unexpected at best. Unceremoniously, she plunked her skinny self down on a stool. Raising one finger, she cleared her throat slightly and sought to catch the eye of the barkeep.

The urgent need for intoxication left her though, as the noises in the tavern registered. Slowly she turns in her seat and glances around. Clearly something is happening, though she in unsure exactly of what. As the shadows begin to [i]change[/i], Niccola can only goggle. This whole series of events has become too much for her to rationally process and instead she simply decides to withhold judgement until later. Once that conclusion is reached, she inhales and then a soft sigh escapes her thin lips in the form of a thick Irish brogue, "Oh, hell"