Guillemette, on the other hand, had accepted her clay bowl with a smile only slightly tinged by the knowledge that this fare and the manner it was provided were below her usual staples, when she was not out on the road. Still, it smelled appetizing enough, and it would have been marinating in the wine and herbs long enough to render even the gamiest rooster tender. The goblet and wine went a long way towards improving her mood, and making the smile less polite and more genuine. She accepted the crystal with a quiet thanks, and went about uncorking the bottle. It was good wine--not too expensive, but not glorified grape juice and not too young to drink, either--and she poured it with a practiced, delicate flourish that ensured nothing spilled.
It was utterly out of place in the merchant camp, with the blasted-drunk old man, the young man whose armor needed mending, and that foreign woman with the blue streaks of paint across her face. It was like the face paints of Val Royeaux gone terrible awry. Not that Guillemette had ever been sure how to execute them properly, which was why she didn’t try, and only had her cheeks rouged and the edges of her eyes blackened under her mother’s, or Thieffane’s, ministrations, they who knew what they were doing.
It was bizarre; it would be easily solved with a bath, Guillemette decided, as she took a sip of the wine. She commenced eating, and for a stretch of time was focused; she ate carefully, politely, unable or unwilling to shake the table manners she had lived with for her entire life, even while sitting on a log somewhere in the countryside. It would have been easier with more utensils, of course, but she made do with a single fork and knife.
After she was sated, she glanced around; “Have you had any encounter with the bandits?” It was not quite making conversation, but it was likely one of the few things they had in common, and Guillemette was content enough to start there. “How long have you been on the road?”