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Butch shifts uncomfortably in her seat as she picks at the plate of indeterminate 'hash.' Thinking back on the local gossip she's heard, she picks out a ship that that had a particularly rough voyage. "Not really in the mood for chatter. Just limped in with the Sailfish, and I've had too many long nights of stormy seas. Sorry."
Butch's head stays low, her mouth in a thin line made crooked by torn lips, but her mismatched eyes lock onto Bethany's as she speaks, "They're long healed. Cures won't take anymore. Even if you could... He's an ass, but he wasn't wrong about making lessons memorable." After a long beat her gaze breaks to once more scan the room in a practiced sweep. "Thank you though, for asking." *** "We're here for a drink, not the questions."
The Pale Butcher puts aside her mask and armor before she heads to the Oyster. She wears a long cloak, midnight blue though the lining is brighter, and keeps the hood up. Those who can see clearly into its shadows though, see unevenly cut hair swept down over eyes mismatched in shape and color. The scars of blades and brands mar the rest of what was probably once a beautiful face. She knows better than to try to seem unsuspicious, but in a city swarming with Aspis snakes, hopefully 'suspicious' won't draw eyes all by itself. She grabs a chair and an ale and sets in to play lookout.
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