As the other woman steps into the glow of the fire, Morrigan looks up to better examine her. The accent is one she cannot place. She might put them at a similar age after getting a good look at her visitor's face in the firelight, but the outfit is far too eye-catching and unusual to her for it not to distract and eventually her eyes are more drawn to the staff, something she considers very familiar. "My needs are met."

Years ago an elf made a habit of seeking her in a small camp-beside-a-camp not unlike this one, and when that thought crosses her mind it amuses her enough that her small smile widens a bit, more genuine and less the perfunctory curve of lips she would give at court when introduced to yet another barely tolerable noble.

"But your courtesy is not unappreciated. Are you a healer?"