Witt, unharmed and unfazed spits after the fickle crowd as it retreats with a habit of contempt she barely notices herself, before walking past the line of Crows with the same casual gall – albeit not crossing over into open disdain this once. These men have done their bruising today. That's well worth a grain of respect, even from her.

Their words reach her ears also. Not the words of gratitude, of course: thankless jobs suit her well enough, and a thanks that doesn't buy a drink or a roof for another day always rings empty. Rather, the words of worry. Lurking, you say? she says, with unbroken calm, not turning back to look at the man. 'S it still here? Now that's something to think about, and more of a concern than another damn fool that stumbled in here for a promise of gold – or so she deems. She looks around, with a curious squint.

Spoiler: OOC
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Perception: (1d20+9)[22]