Melys snorts, stepping aside of Bronson to coo at the bronto, scritching briefly at its bony spike of chin.

"There's a good lad," She tugs lightly at the horn, moving towards the stony steps half a coutyard away. "How many're you bringing in?"

Not regulars, or he'd know where the food was. Not nobility, if she's ever seen a lick of respectability in her life. Not much of a merchant, if he's about to throttle customers over directions. But in charge enough to get stuck with this mess.

That pretty much leaves one thing.

"Place is crawling already," She doesn't wait to spill gratitude before slinging a skin of ale over her shoulder. "Mostly unattached folks, but a real company or two. Figure y'all got fast friends."

Or a few days' worth of tavern pissing matches to butt their way through, but those get on to be one and the same.