Approaching the gates, Artaith grunts unhappily at the signage. She takes a moment to ensure her weapons are stowed (as if she could possibly have shirked their care before), and won't come loose unintentionally. She then all-but gapes at the watch captain, her low-key annoyance leaning dangerously close to outright irritation. "Funny, ya look awful ready to draw that steel here in town," she grumbles, eyeing the woman with what many would consider uncomfortable straight-forwardness. "Is this a 'do as I say' kinda place, or is ya hand just resting there for looks?" She stops and waits with Eponine, likewise curious about the watch captain's explanation.

Spoiler: OOC
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In this case, Artaith isn't trying to be rude or start a fight, but you know. She's good at being rude. Perhaps a soldier would take her straight-forwardness well. In either case, I'm gonna roll diplomacy, as Artaith is legitimately trying to get information, not irritate. (1d20-2)[4]


A few moments later, she finds herself scowling again, gaping at Eponine. "How wot?" she mutters, clearly utterly confused. She watches the back-and-forth as Eponine calculates their needs and Philemon mentions his own ability to live off the land with a growing sense of amusement.

"Neither o' ya ever traveled with a cleric before?" she asks, brusquely. "And guess ya never watched my morning preparations, either." Artaith sniffs, betraying her own odd brand of elitism. "Sweetheart," she places a rough, broad hand on Eponine's gleaming armor. "By the grace o' the Mother of Accord, I can conjure pure, clean water any old time ya like."

She smiles, the expression seeming horribly out of place and more than a little unnerving. "I'll carry a good bit o' gear if ya need it, but ain't gonna waste my effort on water. Sheesh."