"You're set for life here," Magne concludes, then her head tilts. "Or, un-life, as the case may be."

One hand dips behind her, fishing briefly into the folds of the obi tied neatly against her back, coming up with a small knife separate from the very cute cat-eared brass knuckles that hang like charms at her hip. It's less of a weapon, and more of a utility instrument. "If you ever find yourself feeling peckish while you're here, we can provide for you, too. No reason to exclude someone over dietary restrictions, after all."