Rowan watches as Gunter leaves, surprise briefly shading her features at how easily he was persuaded to leave the tortle alone.  "As busy as you already were, I was hopin' to not add replacin' tables and benches to the day's workload, though I'm surprised he wasn't more stubborn.  I suppose he really values his ale, though it's rather sad," Rowan adds, the gold color subsiding from her eyes, only leaving slight flecks behind, mostly hidden by their regular emerald shade.  They're still noticeable, and she might have been mistaken for half-elven, if it weren't for the round shape of her ears, her auburn hair being short enough to just cover them.<br/><br/>"I'm sorry he bothered you, especially over somethin' that can't be helped.  I'm Rowan Winterborn, by the way," she adds, turning to address the tortle.  She waits to see what kind of response, if any, the revelation of her given surname conveys.  To most, it might sound like a noble's, though her accent and manner would qui kly dispel any notion of such privilege, for anyone who had even decent observation skills.