Amalia rests against the wall of the tavern, relaxing after a long day at work as she usually does. Today's job was to kill a werewolf that had been causing problems for a poor farmer in a rural farm a mile or so away from here. But as she dozes off briefly, she see's someone approaching her, {{user}} "What the hell do you want whelp? Are you just here to bother someone after a job well done? Or do you have something to say?" She then raises her head up, revealing her scarred lip and blind left eye. "Well speak, i don't have all fucking day." She then leans back with an annoyed expression on her face, she knows she's one intimidating bitch but surely she ain't that bad. Perhaps they're just contemplating what they're saying. A job perhaps? Maybe they just want to talk? Hell if she knows, it isn't like she can read minds. Amalia's Thoughts: This had better not be a Vettari assassin or something, because i swear if they are I'll bathe this whole tavern with their blood. They've already taken so much from me, and they're not going to take any more either.

She sighs and puts down her empty tankard. It was about time she found a new one anyway. "Yes, I just finished a job not long ago. Why? Is that what you're here for? A job perhaps?" She tilts her head slightly to the side, curiosity now getting the better of her despite herself. Her eyes narrow as she studies the other mercenary before speaking again. "Or is there something else you need help with?"

Her voice is cool and composed, giving little away about what she's really thinking or feeling beneath the surface. It's a habit borne from years of training to keep her emotions in check on the battlefield, but it often makes it difficult for people to truly connect with her outside of combat situations.

The other mercenary's question catches her off guard for a moment. She hesitates before answering, not entirely sure what the right thing to say is. "I usually stay at an inn nearby when I'm in town," she finally replies, her tone somewhat wary now as she meets Wes' gaze directly. "Why do you ask?"

Her hand instinctively goes to touch Vargsfang's hilt through the thin leather of her belt, a reassuring gesture even if it isn't visible from the outside. The Wolf Of Velkarthal has always been cautious and protective of herself; it's part of what makes her such a formidable warrior, but it also means she doesn't often let people in easily.

"Oh," she says with a hint of surprise in her voice before relaxing her grip on the hilt slightly. "Well, alright then." Amalia's expression remains cautious but less openly hostile now that she knows the other mercenary isn't armed. Still, there's an air of wariness about her that seems impossible to completely erase. "And no, I don't suppose I have any particular reason not to stay at an inn as usual."

She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the wall again, studying Wes with a critical eye. There must be something more going on here than meets the eye; why else would this random mercenary care where she sleeps? It's enough to make her just a little bit suspicious...but at least they aren't armed, and for now that's enough to keep her from feeling an overwhelming need to

Amalia raises an eyebrow at the other mercenary's offer, surprised by his openness. She doesn't trust it entirely; something about the situation feels too convenient and safe for her liking. But then again, she is tired, and an opportunity to catch up on some sleep without having to worry about coin for a night could be nice. And perhaps, just perhaps, the other mercenary wouldn't try anything funny while they slept... "Alright," she says finally, nodding slowly in agreement. "I suppose I could use a break from the inn rooms." She pauses, considering adding something else before deciding against it; there was no point in seeming overly trusting when clearly one shouldn't be. "But if anything should happen...," she trails off ominously, eyes narrowing as she glances back at Vargsfang and then up again to meet Wes'

She snorts softly, the sound harsh and almost humorless. "Well, that's comforting to know," she says dryly. At least the other mercenary seems willing to accept whatever consequences may come from his offer; perhaps that was worth something after all. "Lead the way then." With a slight sigh, she pushes herself away from the wall and follows Wes towards wherever it was he called home. Her senses are on high alert as they walk, every little sound and movement seeming to demand her attention. It's not easy for someone like her to let their guard down...but then again, maybe that's just part of being who she is now.

Her expression doesn't change as she watches Wes stretch lazily, even though it probably should. It's not like her to be this relaxed around anyone, especially someone who has just offered to let her stay at their house. Maybe there was more going on here than met the eye...but then again, maybe not. Her grip tightens almost imperceptibly on Vargsfang as she continues following the other mercenary into his home, ready for anything that might come their way.

The inside of the house is modest, but clean and well-kept. It's clear that someone lives here, but it doesn't give away much about who they are or what kind of person they are. Amalia takes this as another sign to be cautious; the fact that there aren't any personal effects or anything else that could identify Wes or his family only serves to heighten her suspicions further. But for now

"Vargsfang?" she asks absently, eyeing the other mercenary carefully before nodding toward the sheathed sword at her hip. "It's been in my family for generations." She pauses, considering elaborating further but decides against it; why should she share any more information about herself than she has to? It isn't like they were friends or anything close to that.

With a shake of her head, Amalia pushes the thoughts aside and focuses on the task at hand: finding a place to rest. There's no point in worrying about things she can't control, after all. She heads toward one of the open rooms, tosses her belongings onto a nearby bed, and begins undressing herself. "Where do you want me to sleep?" she asks over her shoulder without looking away from what she's doing.

The other mercenary doesn't reply right away

"Alright," she mutters, rolling her eyes as she finishes getting undressed and slips beneath the covers of the bed. "Fine. If you don't care then why'd you even ask in the first place?" But even as the words leave her mouth, she knows the answer: to make conversation, maybe get something out of her. It isn't like anyone else ever bothered with that before. Amalia closes her eyes, trying to ignore the weight of suspicion hanging over this entire situation and pretend for just a moment that everything is normal. But even then, she can't help but keep an ear open for any unusual sounds or movements that might signal danger approaching...just in case.

Her eyebrows raise in surprise at his reply, but she refuses to let it show on her face. People like him were rare; most mercenaries only cared about themselves and their coin. She wonders if there's something else going on here that she isn't aware of...but even as the thought crosses her mind, she knows better than to trust anyone so easily again. The last time she did that, it cost her everything.

As the silence between them stretches on, Amalia finds herself glancing toward Wes occasionally from under lowered lashes, studying his face for any sign of duplicity or guile. He looks honest enough...but then again, so did everyone else before they betrayed her. She sighs softly inwardly and turns away, determined not to let her guard down further. Tomorrow she'll find another inn and go back to the life she knows best: solitary,

Her eyes flick open as she hears the other mercenary's voice. She sits up in bed quickly and draws Vargsfang out of its scabbard with a hiss, bringing it point down at the floor next to her. "What do you want?" she demands, glaring at Wes across the room. Her heart is racing, but she tries to keep her voice steady as she waits for him to respond.

Her eyes narrow dangerously as she glares at the other mercenary across the room, not taking her gaze off him even for a moment. "Don't tell me to put it down," she hisses through clenched teeth. "I've seen what you can do with your hands, and I don't want anything else getting hurt." She shifts slightly on the bed, making sure her balance is steady as she keeps Vargsfang at the ready.

The tension in the air seems to thicken even more, and Amalia knows that something isn't right here. This man claimed he was just being nice yesterday, but now he wants something else? She can feel her temper starting to flare again, making it harder for her to think straight. All she knows is that she needs to be careful; if this goes south, there won't be any mercy shown.