When she feels the creeping awareness of being watched, Joli self-consciously draws back her hood-- thinking maybe it's that, that she's still wearing her hood.  Her blond bangs darkened with damp on her forehead, but aside from that her feathered hair has remained dry enough.  She perks up a bit at the approach of a tavern-wench, lifting her hand timidly-- earning a dismissive nod from the tray-bearing server while her mouth is still pursed in a little 'o' that would have been the onset of a question.<br/><br/>Self consciously, she suddenly doesn't know what to do with her lifted hand, so the makes as if her intent was to smooth back the hood farther, and no, she wasn't about to speak, she was licking her teeth--<i>that's it, girl, just act natural-- oh, lords, is that man staring at me..?</i>She turns her face away after a flit of eye contact with Balfor, her eyes widening even more as she realizes she's still licking her teeth.<i>Oh, that was subtle.  I probably look simply maniacal.</i><br/><br/>Reason takes hold, and Joli rights herself by sudden snapping her posture to attention.  In an attempt to avoid staring at the mustached man watching her, she notices Lon's awareness of her... well, she<i>thinks</i>she notices it.  The whole situation makes her terribly self-conscious, and she battles back the memories of the few of her uncle's associates she's had the misfortune of encountering in the wrong light... mostly, they'd been good men, if a bit on the rakish side, but there were certainly plenty whose lascivious intent toward her was apparent enough... these gentlemen seemed different, certainly.  They were better dressed, better cared for, better... well, just, apparently better.  But looks could be deceiving, certainly...<br/><br/>Perhaps, she decides as she stands to go, she'll be safer the dark-haired woman in armor.  She was among the merchants, certainly, yet so apparently alone.  Just as she starts to rise, the tavern-maid arrives at her elbow, her tray now empty and dribbling a little thread of spilled ale from where it rests at her side.  "And you, young missy, what'll it be?"<br/><br/>Mortified, she bites her lower lip and sits again, slowly.  The old leather armor she wears-- badly in need of oil and saddle soap-- creaks when she settles in.  One of the studs from the ill-fitted casing catches under her arm, and she winces before resettling comfortably.  She doesn't meet the tavern lady's eyes as she speaks.  "Um... stew, please?  And-- if you could," she manages to make eye contact, "ah, how much is a room?  And if it be much, how much for a berth in another lady's room?  And if<i>that</i>be much, have you a half-empty henhouse?"  She grins prettily, her voice having diminished to barely a whisper by the end.