Sharp words stirred up waves in her calm waters. Alma let her gaze fall on the ragged witcher, judgement clear in her mind. "Why so quick to dismiss the effort of others?" she spoke with quiet strength. "This might not taste anything to you, but it is not for lack of trying. These people work hard for the little they have."
She could sense how this man could stir up a fight with words alone, how his appearance sent some men running and made others grab for their swords. None of that would lead to anything good, and so Alma chose a different approach. Without another word she eased down onto the chair across from the witcher. "A traveller like you must have tasted worse yet," she said, lips curving ever so slightly. "And is it not, as they call it, just a means to an end?" She raised her own cup of less-than-tasteful liquid and drank from it without making a face.
"Yes..." the Witcher grunted, still smiling unpleasantly, mouth hard and stiff under a thick, white beard, yellow eyes glinting in the shadows that enveloped him. "It still tastes like horse piss." he stated dryly, voice devoid of any emotion as he fixed his stoic, cold gaze upon the woman, and offered her the tankard. "-means to an end? do I give you that impression? Perhaps I fancy myself an ale and mead connoisseur.” he smirked, because of course he did. He was not ignorant to how others perceived him, even though he did not truly have neither care nor regard for what any one might think of him, honestly. "there," he offered gruffly, stuffing the last of the prawns on his plate into his mouth one after the other, as he invited her to sip on his ale. "help yourself." He tossed the empty plate aside and reached for more ale, and as he moved, so did his wolf medallion stir upon the swell of his chest, glowing harshly under the firelight.
