Ah, but sheâd been called a burden - or something thereof - for most of her life. To have someone willing to listen to her, and actually take an interest in what she had to say? Now that would be something else.
Murphie smiled softly at his words, liking the little play of them. Jack of all trades, and a master of none. Still, he was friendly enough, and charming. He could probably find at least a small form of profit from this town, if he was there for a few days. âPerhaps I could  â â
Her words were cut short. A man a tableâs length away, had reached over and tugged on her skirt, causing her to stiffen for a moment. Rag still to his face, her eyes closing for a moment, expression changing from softened, to vulnerable, to stony all in the matter of a moment. âPlease excuse me for a momeâ â
âHey. Girlie, my glass isnât getting any fuller with you spending all your attention elsewhere.â The man had called out to her, shoving his empty glass in her direction, and letting it fall, before she had a moment to catch it. The glass shattered to the floor, causing her to wince. In an instant, she was cleaning it up, using her bare hands, as her rag had been used already. Scooping up the pieces into her apron, she avoided eye-contact with anyone, as she moved to throw it all away, knowing that would come out of her pay. Getting him another glass, she set it down â with him looking all too smug about it.
Storm smiled softly as she started to, possibly, agree to tell him her tale. Then her expression shifted, and his own fell. Eyes shifting to look over at the person who had interrupted their conversation so. Studying the men while she cleaned the glass.
"Better the attention of a gentleman than a child." Storm said, voice calm but with a slight edge. "One who can't seem to hold onto their own glass, even." He smirked.
This was how he got killed a lot of the time. Standing up for the downtrodden. Being the knight in shining armour. After he took the other hellbeasts down with him. If a fight started, he'd try to take it outside. If he were shot? Well... No one had really seen his face long enough to recognize him if he came back. Save, perhaps, the young woman who tended to him so sweetly.
