Dresh listened with rapt attention as he removed his cloak and over-shirt, exposing underneath a well muscled body with large arms that were hidden underneath the long-sleeved shirt and cloak, with equally broad and toned shoulders born witness, a well trimmed pocket of chest hair visible over the rim of the undershirt that barely kept his modesty and concealed either the pressence, or lack-of, muscle undertone behind it. As she kept on talking and enlightening him about the situation, at least from her point of view, he leaned up against a wooden beam that supported the small side-room they were in, located at the very front of his more reclusive hideout, compared to the others scattered across the city. His hazel green eyes kept a lock on her as she talked, and canted his head at her when she finished, his husky voice chimming in again as his right hand idly rested on the inlaid hilt of his sword, though there was no glint of malice or hunger in his eyes. "Partially right, however you're a bit off the the guess, sugar Ro', dear. See, Immortal is also used as a Boren religion rank, specifically for defenders of their zealotry and doctrine, one's that have proven time and time again they cannot be bested by mortal hands. We're given this title not because of what flows in our blood, but what flows underneath our boots when we spoil the soil with our enemy's demise. Before you try to reach for one of your hidden blades -- don't act like I doubt a woman can hide a blade in plain sight of a less than modest collection of clothing, like yourself displays -- I'm what Boren would call "Desheda", or a rebelious traitor. As to my Pa or Ma bein' tainted by some demon's corruption, I heavily doubt it. I never knew the folks, but the big dogs in Boren keep such a tight lock-down on those ordeals." He paused as he canted his head in the other direction at her, regarding her physical appearance, clothing, and body language again, seeing if there was anything he missed about her.
After futher examining her, he simply shrugged idly. "I reckon I can keep ya' 'round, for a bit. My little urchins, as I call 'em, like to refer to this place as the Wolf's Den, due to the fact it's marked by the wolf's head on the door. Old Boren thing, meant to scare away angels and demons; don't ask me how or why, 'cause I dunno'. Right now, you're probably safe for a few days in here. Believe it or not, there's a magical ward at the very mouth of the entrance to this sectioned off area of the docks that is triggered by anything mortal or immortal -- battle tested and proven, mind ya'. Normally I charge a hefty price for someone to lay-low in my den," he said with a sultry lick of his lips as he eyed her over again. "However, for such a darlin' piece of work like ya's self, I think I can find the kindess in my heart to let it go. 'Sides, I'm sure there'll be plenty of other ordeals in the near future that'll present as adequete payment, with the notion of interest included somewhere." His tone reverted back to the husky, masculine, voice that built up with his physical build to easily give off the impression he was a soldier, even if he didn't have a uniform of an army to serve in. There was a long pause, before he finally laughed, possibly interrupting Rowan if she was talking. "The Voice of Shaemil, turnin' to one of Boren's occultic guardians of their religious order. I'm sorry, but the irony is just a bit heavy, eh? So, what's your stake in this anyways, doll?"