Isabelle is well-read on Hell and demons, but she doesn't need that knowledge to recognize the joke. It might be amusing if she weren't in such a fowl mood, throat sore and exhausting and feeling unusually weak. If she had her stele, she could simply slap on a strength rune and an izrate and keep going. She feels naked and vulnerable without it and her whip.

She returns the smile. Her's is thin and icy, laced with an obvious lack-of-patience. She wishes she could approach this situation with a little more calmness and grace. She wishes she would've sat down and worked out her thoughts and the information she had before barging into an inn and demanding answers. Sometimes, she was very good at thinking ahead. Most times, she left that to her brother, and he had yet to show his face here.

"Those both sound like pretty short answers to me." She comes in a little closer, and though she's short and slim, he general confidence and sure attitude tend to cut a pretty intimidating figure at times. "Give me a longer one. I'm looking for answers here."