She can feel her merits being weighed, and like a dog in front of a hunting party she instinctively tries to raise her value, chin out, eyes keen. In a high-born woman this would make her seem haughty, distant-- with this girl's face she would appear remote and daunting, she's sure. But she is poorly bred, with a legacy of poor health, sunburnt skin and moles and bad teeth. It just makes her look mean.

So be it.

So, a staff-- ornately-carved with silver edges, all the better to conduct arcs of lightning-- is pulled from under her travel bag. Yes, she had been hiding it. Anyone with half a brain should hide who they are in a warzone.

"Do you? They are demons of heat and freeze. What protects you from one won't work for the other." It's not something Calpernia has to worry about; it's not her job to be in close combat with these beasts. "Burns and frostbite aren't fashionable in the South, are they?"

Always jockeying for position, trying to cement her position-- it's the half-curled leaf of an insult around the bouquet of a challenge. Are you just a pretty thing? Do you have any real value?