She was delighted to get a response from him, as all the signs she read earlier from his behavior told her that he wanted and should be left alone. Perhaps that was still true, but she couldn’t pass up this chance to pick at this hunter. She usually liked hunters, save for the few who were annoyingly<i>moral</i>and “good.” His actions told her he was far from it and while it would be in her favor for witches to not get snubbed out before they outlived their usefulness, she could appreciate his actions.<br/><br/>“<b>So it’s a daemon you’re after?</b>” The irony wasn’t lost on her, but she didn’t need to share that with him. She was also careful not to push her luck, asking him too much without giving the little that would make him concede enough. Her focus was getting slightly distracted by the red in his long beard. There wasn’t a hair that shade on his entire body, at least what she could see of it, so when she took another long drink of her mead, she looked curiously at the shade of honey in her cup.<i>Strange.</i><br/><br/>“<b>You can call me Retta,</b>” she told him without hesitation, knowing full well that she wouldn’t give her full name to a soul, not as long as she occupied this vessel. It was a nice body that helped her get her job done more easily. Her eyes finally snapped up to him; she hadn’t realized they’d wandered back down to his beard again.<br/><br/>“<b>Where do I draw the line?</b>” she repeated, contemplating out loud. “<b>I can tell you that I don’t mind witches.</b>” A laugh followed her statement as her hazel eyes locked on his, carefully studying the way he would react to her comment. Then, she gave, “<b>Some would say I don’t have a line, that it’s so low it doesn’t exist. Others think it’s strangely high, that I tolerate too much. I think, though, it depends.</b>” All her words were true; their real meanings were just hard to pin down. But she knew she had to be careful too, especially with this one.<br/><br/>Signaling to the bartender, she requested politely, “<b>Two more, please?</b>” To demonstrate that she wasn’t about to rack up a bill she couldn’t pay, she fished a leather pouch out from under her cloak, revealing for a split second a strange black dagger at her waist. She dropped a generous number of coins onto the table, then said to her not-so friendly companion, “<b>I don’t believe I’ve caught your name, sir.</b>”