"'An asshole?' He's a complete child," Qilby says, and laughs.

Watching her face light up at the prospect of a drink, he wonders if alcohol will make her more or less likely to (continue to) over-share. It's hard to imagine there being a whole lot more to hear about this woman's life and he's only known her, what-- five minutes? But if it'll get her off the streets yelling about whores, ruining his efforts to make Blackflight allies of the elves, he supposes it's worth enduring.

"Something for my friend, please. She's a fellow Blacksworn," he calls to the innkeep, following behind Apollo. And as an aside to her, he adds, "You're taken care of, but please -- try not to drain his cellars dry." He'd test the boundaries of what this... Glib-tongue could get him out of later, at another time. He takes a seat at a table, crossing his legs and resting his hand in his lap -- the other sleeve hangs, conspicuously empty, at his side. The Retreat is not a town that gets too many travelers and so, this early in the day, the inn is practically empty. The perfect place for this woman to drink herself stupid: someplace out of sight.