A drunk that thinks he's clever and a thief, so far. Well, those and a couple shining knights. A lovely mix of desperate means, Witt thinks to herself, slowly shaking her head. Mine's Witt, sailor-man. she pronounces bluntly, her guttural voice sounding oddly warm, at the surface – and yet off. And talking's a waste of bad breath, I say. Something like a hoarse chuckle is produced from somewhere deep within her throat, as she rolls a shoulder, letting the thicj bundles of muscle and sinew on her arm flow and ripple, still balancing the chest with casual ease on the crook of the other elbow. The worn flask emerges once more from some pocket, its content sipped, quickly. Grog, anyone? she holds it out, mostly towards this Nicholas fellow, as though in a challenge.