Her brow lifts, curious at his curiosity. Bemused, perhaps as well.

Then she tilts - a shrug of one ornamented shoulder that rises and falls with a shimmer. "That is the cost of business, yes? That is people. Some kind, some wicked."

But since he is asking questions, she decides to sit again. Neatly sweeping her skirts with her to sit back by the chair by her make shift fireplace. Then begins to stir the pot.

But not with a spoon. Her hand comes up and starts to move a circle, and obediently, the soup follows a slow pattern. "As for myself? I know what I am capable of."

And she has survived worse than a few thieves or brigands.