Unfortunately for Imenry, Guillemette was a talker. Quite a talker. She took another sip from her goblet, gestures still cultured and proper; it was a small sip, of course. She smiled and looked between the three mercenaries; "Hopefully, it will only be this stretch that is trouble; I have not heard of any troubles out towards Jader. That is quite a long way, however. I have never been to Jader, myself."
She took another sip, looking around; the atmosphere was different from any she was familiar with, neither an evening on the campsite with the other chevaliers, which was companionable and easy, or a formal evening anywhere in Val Foret or Val Royeaux. For one thing, she was sitting on the ground, and she could only imagine half of the ladies at one of those dinners shrieking about getting their gowns filthy. (She would have detested getting a gown of her own dirty, too, but she was dressed for riding, and that was all the difference.)
"Are any of you native to Jader?" The question was meant to encompass all three of them, old, young, and blue-painted. Although she suspected the last was not, and curiosity still pricked her to discover where the woman was from. Did she even speak Orlesian?