Freyja sheds her cloak and hangs it from a peg on the wall-- more a split hunk of barnwood, actually, but a makeshift peg nonetheless.  By the amber glow of the oil lamp in the room, her eyes gleam like black jewels as she looks her two companions over.  "Wine is a fantastic idea, Machado," she says softly, accepting a cup with a faint smile of gratitude.  She unfastens her scabbard-buckle and rests the sword, upright, on the upturned crate that serves as a nightstand in this room.  She takes a slow drink, washing the taste of the street's air from her mouth.<br/><br/>"I know this is no respectable place," she says to Lina, "and you seem a respectable woman.  So I am sorry that it had to come to this."  She sips again.  "Machado, I'm sure you understand."  He was good about that... rakish in his own right, more at home in the underworld than she herself, and although she was no less alien to its true darkness, he was more comfortable shoulder-to-shoulder with its patrons.  That step of a descent into degredation was one she had skipped, for the most part... perhaps out of fortune, perhaps as a curse.<br/><br/>The slaves' entrance is not unnoticed by her, though she makes no move to engage them.  The deadness in their eyes is apparent, though whether it is from opium or simple ennui is unclear.  "Good choice," she says softly to Machado.  "The sounds will be... authentic."  She works at the fastenings of her cuirass.  "Gods' blood, what I need is a massage."  Two more blades are seated at her waist-- much smaller, though perhaps too large and scimitar-like to be called knives.  "Lina, tell us of yourself, please.  I would like to know who you are, and what has befallen you."