The French woman nervously stepped inside the tavern, looking around at the dim lighting and felt the urge to buy herself a drink. It had been much too long, since she had taken a sip of alcohol, though she hardly could afford a glass of water.
It was why she was here.
Xavière approached the counter uncertainly with a piece of paper in her hand, looking around the place a final time before finally approaching the woman. Her hands moved to brush the dirt off of the clothing she wore, a pair of slacks and a scruffed up shirt that didn't quite make her seem presentable.
She gave a wave to the woman, before setting the piece of paper down on the counter, with the word, "Work?" scribbed on it in messy handwriting in English- that, and sorry, was the only English vocabulary she had.