Her hand is on the haft of her axe before the voice has a face. When she sees him, it lowers slowly down to her hip instead.

"There is room enough, elder. The food is hardly fit for kings, but if you can tolerate it you are welcome to fill your belly while you rest your feet."

Not possible. Not. Still, she does not strike. She only moves to pluck some of the meat and several charred vegetables from her spit and place it in the empty bowl. The gods are dead, this she knows. And yet it is... possible. And if it is possible, she cannot act. Terrible things befall those who fail the tests of Odin. 

But even knowing who she might be speaking to the warrior does not straighten her posture or vaguely attempt politeness beyond her little niceties already given. She stays hunched with one hand planted on the ground in front of her. Pride is nothing before practicality and there is little enough to be gained by being a perfect host here in the middle of nowhere, so far from her halls and her wealth. In fact, the more of a beast she seemed, the better.

"There is nothing to wash it down with I'm afraid," she says with a jerk of her head toward her Master, "This idiot drained every bottle we were carrying. But there is a fountain not far off; if you require it I will point you in its direction."

She watches the old man's every motion with equal parts curiosity, caution, and unconscious reverence as she perches by the fire. She does not move, and yet she is not still. She is silent, and yet she is not quiet. Her fingers dig into the dirt and her hips shift her weight from side to side. This makes her leathers creak and her chain clink and rattle against the weapons she carries on her body. Her long, banded braid scrapes across her outfit until it falls on the ground with a heavy thud and pools by her feet.

It's a dangerous game though, to be playing at Host with someone who she might still need to kill. But what signs should she be watching if not the ones in front of her? He came to her after Ragnarok had passed and taken him. He came to her carrying a raven, but without any wolves. He came to her begging but unbent, at once weak and much, much too strong. There are any number of terrible things this old man could be, and the very worst of them is exactly what he looks like.

The thumb on her free hand stretches across her other fingers, and worries at her rings.

"None of this is free, friend. Your name, your destination, and a story. I'll accept those as payment for fire food and directions, though if you're hiding something richer I'll take those too."

She grins: firelight dances in reflection across her razor teeth.