"Got warned about them but it's not the same," and with her mouth lifting up too suddenly for it to be good to a stranger (a few people would know that look, Hail Sithis and a soft murmur of lass for all they were of age) she leans in. "Can't show you here, don't know why it was in my pocket not my pack but got an ear from one. Might learn something, see the differences but our alchemists use them. I've used them." That's not why she has the ear. She just has it. She killed a lot of a falmer she was bound to end up with bits of them lodged in pockets, and somewhere her stuff was just spat out elsewhere.

Holding in her horror is an old thing. It's-- no. It's not easy. It shouldn't be easy, it won't be easy but habits are habits, drilled into her same as aim, draw, release, how to fiddle a lock to find the right spot without jamming it hopelessly, how deep to sink a knife without spoiling pelt or meat. Nothing changes, only that Brónach can't look at someone that isn't one of her own for it. What's a stranger going to see in her eyes? Too much? Not enough? Stupid to take the risk. "I've met that kind," she manages around a raw throat and she can't give more. She won't. That there's a thing like the Thalmor here when she already glimpsed something else of it, a rot in the heart that makes her sick.

"Werewolves belong to the daedra Hircine if you don't kill the wolf spirit too." It's an offering, a way to not have to talk about the fucking Magisters or the fucking Thalmor anymore. "You can cure it with a witch's head but getting that isn't easy, the witches are attached," ha ha she doesn't tell jokes often, "and then there's fighting the wolf spirit. Otherwise you spend your afterlife in Hircine's Hunting Grounds and not wherever you're meant to go."

(The fit to be pitched carving up Brónach's leavings-- well. She'll maybe see if there's a Wild Hunt and just go for that first.)