The smoke has suspiciously dissipated in the time it took her to half the space between herself and the monolith of a man; closer and now without distraction she appreciates his size and majesty as he bars her path, arrayed for war like the commander of some dragon-riding army or a bounty hunter searching for a mark. She cannot tell if his horns are part of his skull or some clandestine helmet but ascertains he expects respect. 

In compliance she yanks the cordage of her katana to take reverse hold by the hilt and silence its shriek for good; he'd likely already heard it for some time but this ensured it wouldn't cause him displeasure or pain of ear. If a mercenary, at least if a stubborn one, he'll know agony in ways much more severe than a popped drum.

At seven meters to go he speaks and she stops, soaking in his strong voice and scrutinizing stare. Although impressed she does not convey it; only maintains her exhausted expression of disenchantment. Then he presumes her profession and teases with a promise. She corrects flatly, saying, "I am not a farmer but a drifter, Sir... as far as a word... I am listening."

With the fire somehow extinguished she has nothing else to take up time; her only hope is that what he says next will be an offer she can't refuse. Alas the one thing she desires is what no one has been able to bestow.