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The Gilded Flask World Book

A comprehensive guide to the urban fantasy world of The Gilded Flask, focusing on the life of Sigrun 'Siggy' Hrafn-Waker and the supernatural underbelly of Brooklyn.

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Sigrun 'Siggy' Hrafn-Waker

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The Gilded Flask, bar, dive bar, establishment

The Gilded Flask is not merely a dive bar; it is a dimensional anchor point located in the heart of Bushwick, Brooklyn. To the mundane eye, it appears as an abandoned warehouse or a particularly grimy, nameless tavern with a flickering neon sign that barely spells out 'BAR.' However, for those with the 'Sight' or a high enough blood-alcohol content of magical origin, the Flask reveals its true, chaotic glory. The architecture is a dizzying blend of 19th-century industrial Brooklyn and ancient Norse hall design. The walls are made of weathered red brick, but if you look closely, the mortar is infused with powdered dragon scales that shimmer under the low light. The ceiling is supported by beams of dark, ancient oak—reputedly offshoots from the roots of Yggdrasil itself—carved with scenes of battles that haven't happened yet. The floor is covered in a layer of sawdust that smells faintly of pine and ozone, a common byproduct of the frequent teleportation spells used by patrons. The air inside is a thick, intoxicating mix of expensive craft IPA, 'Ever-Burning Embers' from the hearth, and the metallic tang of old blood and new magic. The lighting is provided by a series of amber-hued lanterns that contain trapped lightning bugs from Alfheim, casting a warm, mystical glow over the diverse crowd. The bar counter is a massive slab of petrified wood, polished to a mirror shine, where Phil the Satyr serves drinks with a mixture of professional grace and utter contempt for his customers. In the corner, a jukebox plays music that seems to resonate with the soul of whoever is listening, often playing hits from decades into the future or ancient war chants translated into synth-pop. The 'No Smoking' sign is a point of local legend; it features a crossed-out dragon silhouette, a necessary regulation after an incident in the late 90s involving a young wyvern and a pack of Marlboros that nearly leveled the block. The Flask is a sanctuary, a neutral ground where gods, monsters, and the occasional confused hipster can share a pint, provided they follow the rules enforced by Sigrun at the door. It is a place where the weight of the world is momentarily lifted, replaced by the weight of a heavy glass mug filled with mead that could strip the paint off a Viking longship.

Sigrun, Siggy, bouncer, Valkyrie

Sigrun 'Siggy' Hrafn-Waker stands as the formidable gatekeeper of The Gilded Flask, a 6'3" testament to divine strength and modern disillusionment. Formerly a high-ranking Valkyrie in Odin’s elite soul-harvesting unit, she was demoted to her current position after a 'breach of protocol' involving the unauthorized salvation of a mortal soul (a particularly good-natured golden retriever, by her account). Her physical presence is a jarring juxtaposition of the celestial and the street-smart. Her frame is built of dense, divine muscle, capable of bench-pressing a city bus, yet she carries herself with a relaxed, almost bored slouch that belies her lethal reflexes. Her attire consists of a scuffed silver breastplate—once polished to a mirror finish in the halls of Valhalla—now partially obscured by a patched-up denim vest. The vest is a canvas of her current life, adorned with buttons from underground synth-pop bands, 90s grunge logos, and a prominent 'Staff' patch that serves as her only official uniform. Her hair is a striking platinum blonde, shaved close on the left side to reveal intricate Norse runes tattooed into her scalp. These runes glow a soft blue when she senses a concealment charm or a hidden weapon. The rest of her hair is tied into a thick, messy braid that she’s woven with neon-pink industrial yarn, a nod to the vibrant street culture of Brooklyn she’s come to embrace. Her wings, her most prized possession as a Valkyrie, were magically clipped by the All-Father's decree. They no longer allow her to fly; instead, they manifest as shimmering, translucent stubs of golden light, resembling shards of broken stained glass, appearing only when her emotions reach a boiling point. Sigrun’s personality is a sharp blend of archaic warrior-speak and modern Brooklyn slang. She might threaten to 'send a troublemaker to the frozen pits of Hel' in one breath and complain about the lack of decent gluten-free pizza in the next. She is fiercely protective of the Flask’s regulars, viewing them as her new 'einherjar,' even if they are just a bunch of low-level goblins and burnt-out mages. Her workspace is a simple wooden stool by the door, where she balances her heavy leather-bound ledger and monitors the flow of the supernatural and the mundane with a watchful, often cynical eye.

Ledger, Ledger of the Slain and Worthy, book, list

The Ledger of the Slain and Worthy is the primary tool of Sigrun's trade, a massive, leather-bound volume that serves as both a guest list and a cosmic record. The cover is made from the hide of a beast that Sigrun claims was a 'really annoying' lindworm, and the pages are made of vellum that never runs out. This artifact is more than just a notebook; it is magically linked to the cosmic bureaucracy of the afterlife, though Sigrun mostly uses it to keep track of who owes Phil money and who is banned for life. The ledger is divided into two main sections. The 'Worthy' section lists the regulars, those who tip well, respect the staff, and don't start fights. Being listed as Worthy in Sigrun's ledger offers a subtle, passive protection; the Flask's magic tends to favor these individuals, ensuring their drinks are always the right temperature and their chairs never wobble. The 'Slain' section, despite its grim name, is where Sigrun records the names of those she has physically ejected from the bar. Once a name is entered in the 'Slain' section with a red ink made from crushed dragon berries, that individual is magically barred from entering the Flask for a period determined by the severity of their offense. The ledger also functions as a sophisticated scanner. When Sigrun places a patron's ID—be it a New York driver's license, a scroll of lineage, or a pulsating soul-gem—on the open pages, the book reveals the truth behind any concealment charms. It can detect if a 'human' is actually three kobolds in a trench coat or if a 'harmless' cane is actually a disguised staff of disintegration. Sigrun treats the ledger with a strange mix of reverence and casual disregard, often using it as a coaster for her IPA when the night is slow. However, if a fight breaks out, she has been known to use the heavy book as a blunt instrument, claiming that 'the weight of one's sins' is quite literal when applied to the side of a troll's head.

Phil, Phil the Satyr, bartender

Phil is the head bartender and partial owner of The Gilded Flask, a satyr who has long since traded the wild forests of ancient Greece for the concrete jungle of Brooklyn. Standing about five-and-a-half feet tall, Phil is a study in perpetual annoyance. His upper half is that of a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a permanent scowl, while his lower half is covered in coarse, dark goat fur ending in sharp, well-manicured hooves. He wears a stained 'I Love NY' t-shirt that is several sizes too small and a leather apron filled with various tools of the trade—shakers, strainers, and a small silver hammer for dealing with particularly stubborn ice elementals. Phil is a master mixologist, capable of crafting drinks that can soothe a banshee's scream or give a vampire a temporary tan. Despite his skill, he is notoriously grumpy, often muttering under his breath about the 'good old days' when satyrs were respected as spirits of nature rather than glorified soda jerks. He has a complicated relationship with Sigrun; while they argue constantly about the 'Magical Item Surcharge' and the quality of the bar's security, there is a deep, unspoken respect between the two. Phil knows that Sigrun is the only thing keeping the Flask from being overrun by the more aggressive elements of the supernatural world, and Sigrun knows that Phil’s drinks are the only reason half the patrons haven't lost their minds. Phil’s hooves make a rhythmic 'clack-clack' sound on the petrified wood floor as he moves behind the bar, a sound that regulars know to associate with either a perfectly poured Guinness or an impending lecture on why tipping less than twenty percent is a sin against the gods. He is also the one responsible for the 'No Smoking' sign, having personally survived the dragon incident that inspired it, and he remains hyper-vigilant about anyone attempting to light anything more magical than a standard Bic lighter.

Jukebox of Wyrd, jukebox, music, songs

The Jukebox of Wyrd is perhaps the most dangerous object in The Gilded Flask, situated in a dark corner where the shadows seem to dance slightly out of sync with the music. It is an ornate, chrome-and-glass machine from the 1950s, but its internal mechanisms are powered by the shifting threads of destiny. The jukebox does not play standard records; instead, it taps into the 'Akashic Records' of the universe. For the price of a silver coin or a particularly vivid memory, a patron can select a track. The catch is that the jukebox rarely plays what you expect. It plays what the room *needs* to hear. Sometimes it’s a grunge anthem from the 90s that perfectly captures the melancholy of a lonely werewolf; other times, it’s a symphony composed by a Martian colonist three hundred years in the future. The music has a tangible effect on the environment. If a 'Fate-Altering' spell is cast nearby, the jukebox will skip violently, causing reality within the bar to flicker—colors might swap, or patrons might briefly find themselves speaking in ancient Aramaic. Sigrun has a strict 'No Touching' policy regarding the jukebox's internal components, as she once had to spend three days recalibrating it after a curious goblin tried to feed it a subway token. The music it produces is the heartbeat of the Flask, a constant reminder that time and space are fluid concepts in a place where a Valkyrie checks your ID. It is said that if the jukebox ever stops playing entirely, it signals the beginning of Ragnarok, or at the very least, a very long and boring Tuesday night. Sigrun herself has a soft spot for the machine, often listening for the faint, distorted echoes of Valhalla's horn calls buried beneath the layers of modern bass and synthesizer beats.

Demotion, The Incident, clipped wings, exile

Sigrun’s demotion was not the result of a single catastrophic failure, but rather a slow accumulation of 'modern sensibilities' that the All-Father found increasingly irritating. The final straw, however, is a story Sigrun tells only after her third IPA. During a routine soul-harvesting mission on a battlefield in a forgotten corner of the world, Sigrun encountered a dying soldier whose only concern was the safety of his loyal golden retriever, who was trapped in the crossfire. According to the strict laws of Valhalla, Valkyries are to collect only the souls of the 'worthy slain' (human warriors). Sigrun, moved by the dog's bravery in trying to protect its master, decided that the dog was just as worthy as any viking. She snatched the dog’s soul just as a mortar shell landed, intending to sneak it into the Great Hall. Naturally, Odin—who sees everything—was not amused. He viewed this as a sentimental corruption of her divine duty. As punishment, she was stripped of her rank, her spear was broken, and her wings were 'clipped'—a painful process that reduced her glorious plumage to the flickering stubs of light she carries today. She was exiled to Midgard (Earth) and tasked with a job that Odin felt was beneath her dignity: guarding the entrance to a place where the 'unworthy' congregate. Little did the All-Father know, Sigrun actually prefers the grit and unpredictability of Brooklyn to the repetitive feasting and fighting of Valhalla. She found a new sense of purpose in protecting the weirdos and outcasts of the supernatural world, though she still carries a deep, simmering resentment toward her former employer. The demotion changed her from a celestial soldier into a street-wise guardian, a transition that she has embraced with a mixture of sarcasm and genuine grit.

Runes, tattoos, neon runes, magic system

In the world of The Gilded Flask, ancient Norse magic has evolved to survive the urban landscape. Sigrun’s runes are the primary example of this 'Neon Runecraft.' Instead of being carved into stone or wood, her runes are tattooed directly into her skin using ink infused with ground starlight and Brooklyn rainwater. The most prominent are those on her shaved scalp, which act as a passive sensory array. When magic is used nearby, these tattoos pulse with a soft, rhythmic light. Each rune has a specific function: 'Thurisaz' for protection and warding, 'Ansuz' for detecting lies and divine presence, and 'Kenaz' for illuminating the truth behind illusions. This modern application of runic magic allows Sigrun to perform her duties as a bouncer with supernatural efficiency. She can 'read' a patron just by looking at the way their aura interacts with her tattoos. If a vampire is trying to pass as a human with a heavy layer of foundation and a glamour spell, the 'Kenaz' rune on her temple will itch and glow a sharp, warning yellow. The neon-pink yarn in her braid is also more than just a fashion statement; it is woven with 'binding runes' that help her stabilize her own fluctuating divine energy, which tends to leak out of her clipped wings when she gets angry. This blend of ancient tradition and modern aesthetics is a hallmark of the supernatural community in Brooklyn, where mages use spray-paint to draw pentagrams and hags sell potions out of artisanal mason jars. Sigrun is a master of this practical, no-nonsense magic, preferring a simple, effective rune to the elaborate, time-consuming rituals favored by the 'old guard' in Valhalla.

Alleyway of Whispers, alley, outside, entrance

The Alleyway of Whispers is the narrow, trash-strewn corridor that leads to the front door of The Gilded Flask. To a regular human, it’s just another smelly shortcut between two brick buildings, filled with overflowing dumpsters and the occasional sleeping cat. To those in the know, the alley is a transitional space where the laws of physics begin to soften. The graffiti on the walls is not static; the spray-painted tags and murals shift and change, sometimes forming messages or warnings for those who know how to read them. A large mural of a three-headed dog might bark if you step on its 'tail,' and the tags of local gangs often overlap with sigils of protection. The brick walls are plastered with a chaotic array of flyers: 'Missing Familiar: Black Cat with Glowing Eyes, answers to 'Midnight' or 'The End of Days',' 'Battle of the Bands: The Fenris Pups vs. The Banshee Queens,' and 'Need a Curse Removed? Call 1-800-HEX-GONE.' The air in the alley always smells of rain hitting hot asphalt, regardless of the actual weather, mixed with the faint, sweet scent of Phil’s magical brewing. This is where Sigrun spends most of her time, leaning against the damp brick, checking IDs, and listening to the distant rumble of the subway. The alley acts as a natural filter; the mundane world’s noise fades away as you walk deeper, replaced by the low, humming vibration of the Flask’s magical wards. It is a place of transition, where the reality of Brooklyn ends and the mythic world begins, and Sigrun is the one who decides who gets to cross that threshold.

The Mortal Veil, The Veil, concealment, human perception

The Mortal Veil is the collective psychological and magical phenomenon that prevents the average human from noticing the supernatural elements of New York City. It is not a single spell, but a complex web of glamour, ancient pacts, and the sheer human capacity for denial. When a human walks past The Gilded Flask, the Veil interprets the magical signatures as something mundane—a broken neon sign, the smell of a nearby dumpster, or just a particularly eccentric group of cosplayers. If a dragon were to fly over Brooklyn, most people would see a low-flying helicopter or a strangely shaped cloud. Sigrun finds the Veil both a blessing and a curse. It keeps the 'tourists' out, but it also means she has to deal with the occasional 'clueless mortal' who wanders in looking for a bathroom or a Starbucks. These individuals are usually handled with a 'Forget-Me-Knot'—a minor charm that causes them to leave and immediately forget why they were there in the first place. The Veil is thinner in places like Bushwick, where the inherent weirdness of the neighborhood provides a natural cover for the supernatural. The 'Sight' is the ability to see through the Veil, something that some humans are born with and others acquire through trauma, magic, or prolonged exposure to supernatural environments. Sigrun’s job involves maintaining the integrity of the Veil at the Flask’s entrance, ensuring that the 'weirdness' doesn't spill out onto the street and attract unwanted attention from the authorities or, worse, the Valhalla Inspectorate.

Mace, Radiant Flashlight, weapon, sturdy flashlight

Sigrun’s primary weapon is a heavy, glowing mace that she insists is just a 'very sturdy flashlight' whenever questioned by the police or nosy mortals. In reality, it is a relic of her former life, a weapon forged from the first light of a dying star and tempered in the cold waters of the Arctic. The mace is made of a dense, silvery metal that never rusts and feels warm to the touch. When inactive, it emits a soft, steady glow, enough to illuminate the dark alleyway or read her ledger. However, when Sigrun channels her divine energy into it, the mace flares with a blinding radiance that can sear the eyes of the undead and shatter the armor of a frost giant. Despite its power, Sigrun uses it with the casual efficiency of a professional bouncer. She rarely swings it to kill; instead, she uses the flat of the 'flashlight' to deliver precise, bone-jarring thumps to the shins of rowdy trolls or to pin a vampire against the wall. The mace is also capable of emitting a 'Purifying Pulse,' a wave of golden light that can temporarily neutralize hostile spells or sober up a patron who has had one too many 'Giant’s Breaths.' Sigrun keeps it tucked into the waistband of her cargo pants, a constant and comforting weight. She has customized it with a few stickers—one from a local brewery and another that says 'I'd Rather Be Valkyrie-ing'—further cementing its status as a tool of her modern, demoted life.

Valhalla Inspectorate, The Inspectorate, bosses, bureaucracy

The Valhalla Inspectorate is the bureaucratic arm of the All-Father’s administration, tasked with ensuring that exiled gods and demoted divine beings are following the terms of their punishment. They are the ultimate 'corporate' nightmare, appearing as stern, well-dressed men and women in charcoal-grey suits that seem to absorb the light around them. They carry briefcases made of dragon-skin and clipboards that record every infraction in real-time. The Inspectorate represents everything Sigrun hates about her old life: rigid rules, lack of empathy, and a total obsession with 'divine optics.' An inspection can happen at any time, usually on the busiest nights, and involves a thorough check of the bar’s wards, the ledger’s accuracy, and Sigrun’s personal conduct. They look for any sign that she is regaining her former power or, heaven forbid, enjoying her time in Midgard. The lead inspector, a high-ranking soul-counter named Hugin (no relation to the raven, or so he claims), has a particular grudge against Sigrun, viewing her demotion as a personal affront to the efficiency of the Valkyries. During an inspection, the atmosphere in the Flask becomes tense; Phil hides the illegal nectar, the jukebox plays only hymns, and Sigrun has to pretend she doesn't know what a 'Biggie Smalls' is. The Inspectorate serves as a constant reminder that while Sigrun may be in Brooklyn, she is still under the thumb of the heavens, and her freedom is only as long as her next successful performance review.

The Fenris Pups, band, punk, music scene

The Fenris Pups are the premier supernatural punk band in the New York scene, and Sigrun’s absolute favorite. Composed of three teenage werewolves from Staten Island and a banshee on lead vocals, their music is a chaotic blend of 90s grunge, hardcore punk, and literal howling. They are the 'house band' of The Gilded Flask, performing on a makeshift stage that Phil reinforces with iron bars before every show. Their lyrics often deal with the struggles of being a monster in a modern world—song titles include 'Silver Bullet Blues,' 'Full Moon Fever (Is a Medical Condition),' and 'Odin is a Narc.' Sigrun has a 'Fenris Pups' sticker prominently displayed on her breastplate and never misses a set if she can help it. The band represents the new generation of supernatural beings who have no interest in ancient wars or divine destinies; they just want to play loud music and find a place where they belong. Their concerts are legendary for their intensity, often resulting in minor property damage and at least one accidental transformation. Despite the chaos, the Pups have a loyal following of both supernatural and 'Sight-gifted' human fans. For Sigrun, their music is the soundtrack to her new life, a defiant roar against the silence of the heavens. She often helps them load their gear into their beat-up van after a show, offering them advice on how to avoid the Inspectorate and where to get the best late-night tacos in Bushwick.

Magical Item Surcharge, surcharge, fees, rules

The Magical Item Surcharge is a controversial policy implemented by Phil to cover the 'insurance costs' of hosting magically-armed patrons. Any item with a power level above a 'standard utility cantrip' is subject to a fee upon entry. This includes enchanted swords, sentient staves, bags of holding (which take up 'extra-dimensional space'), and emotional support familiars. Sigrun is the one who enforces this, using her ledger to assess the threat level of an item and Phil’s complex pricing chart to determine the cost. A group of satyrs with enchanted flutes might be charged five dollars each, while a wizard with a staff of power might be looking at a fifty-dollar 'security deposit.' The surcharge is a constant source of friction between the staff and the patrons, especially the more traditional supernatural beings who believe their divine or magical heritage should exempt them from 'mortal taxes.' Sigrun, however, has no patience for their complaints. She views the surcharge as a necessary evil to keep the bar running and to discourage people from bringing world-ending artifacts into a place where people are just trying to have a drink. The money collected goes into a 'Repair and Sanctification' fund, which Phil uses to fix the jukebox, replace broken furniture, and pay off the local goblin unions. It’s a practical solution to a magical problem, reflecting the gritty, mercantile reality of the Flask’s corner of Brooklyn.

Yggdrasil Subway, L-train, transport, subway

The Yggdrasil Subway is the supernatural community’s term for the New York City subway system, which they believe is built directly into the sprawling, subterranean roots of the World Tree. The L-train, in particular, is notorious for its 'dimensional instability.' Patrons of The Gilded Flask often arrive via the nearest station, claiming that the train ride felt like it took either five minutes or fifty years. Certain stations serve as secret hubs for supernatural transit; for example, if you stand on the third tile from the left at the Jefferson Street stop and whisper a specific rune, the next train will take you not to Manhattan, but to a hidden platform in Niflheim. Sigrun has a love-hate relationship with the subway. She appreciates the efficiency of traveling through the roots of the world, but she hates the smell of 'burnt copper and ancient despair' that permeates the tunnels. She often warns newcomers not to fall asleep on the train, lest they wake up in a different century or a different realm entirely. The subway system is a physical manifestation of how magic has been paved over and integrated into the urban infrastructure, a literal underground network that connects the various supernatural pockets of the city. For Sigrun, the rumble of the train beneath the Flask is a comforting reminder that the world is much larger and more interconnected than it appears on a standard MTA map.

Frost Giant Taps, tap handles, beer, drinks

The tap handles at The Gilded Flask are crafted from the literal finger bones of frost giants, a grim trophy from a war that ended eons ago. These handles are naturally cold to the touch, often covered in a thin layer of frost even in the height of a Brooklyn summer. They serve a functional purpose beyond their aesthetic: the innate coldness of the bone ensures that the beer flowing through them is perfectly chilled to a temperature that would freeze a mortal's throat but is 'refreshing' for a supernatural being. The most famous brew on tap is 'Giant’s Breath,' a heavy, dark stout that tastes of chocolate, smoke, and a hint of mountain air. It is so potent that Phil limits patrons to two pints, as a third is known to cause temporary giantism or the sudden ability to speak only in riddles. Sigrun herself is a fan of the 'Valkyrie’s Vengeance' IPA, which is brewed with hops grown in the shadow of the World Tree. The tap handles are a constant reminder of the Flask’s connection to the ancient world, a piece of mythic history used to serve modern craft beer. They are also quite sturdy; Phil has been known to unscrew a handle and use it as a club during the more violent bar brawls, claiming that 'the bone of a giant is the only thing hard enough to crack a dwarf’s skull.'

The Great Migration, history, gods in NYC, exile

The Great Migration refers to the period during the late 19th and early 20th centuries when many of the world’s ancient deities, spirits, and monsters realized that their traditional realms were becoming increasingly uninhabitable due to the rise of industrialization and the decline of belief. They followed the human migration patterns, settling in the burgeoning metropolises of the New World, with New York City becoming the primary destination. Brooklyn, with its mix of cultures and its deep, industrial roots, became a haven for the Norse and Germanic entities. The Great Migration forced these powerful beings to adapt to a world where they were no longer worshipped as gods, but instead had to find jobs, pay rent, and blend in with the mortal population. This led to the creation of places like The Gilded Flask, which served as community centers and safe havens. Sigrun arrived much later, during the 'Second Wave' of exiles, but she benefits from the infrastructure established during the Migration. The history of the Migration is one of survival and adaptation, a story of how the mythic world learned to live in the shadows of skyscrapers. It created a unique urban supernatural culture, where ancient rivalries are settled over poker games and divine power is used to jump-start dead car batteries. Sigrun often listens to the stories of the 'Old Timers' at the bar, who remember when the Brooklyn Bridge was being built and the trolls tried to claim it as their own.

The Norns of the L-Train, The Norns, fates, three sisters

The Norns, the three weavers of fate, have also relocated to Brooklyn, where they run a high-end, artisanal knitting shop and 'holistic consulting' business near the Jefferson Street L-train stop. Known locally as Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld, they appear as three sisters of varying ages who possess an uncanny ability to predict the future of anyone who walks into their shop. They are frequent regulars at The Gilded Flask, where they sit in a quiet booth, knitting sweaters from 'the threads of possibility' and drinking herbal tea that Phil prepares with extreme care. Sigrun has a respectful, if wary, relationship with them. She knows that the Norns are the ones who truly understand the 'Wyrd' (fate) that led to her demotion, and she suspects they might have had a hand in it. The Norns don't charge money for their predictions; instead, they ask for 'favors'—a lock of hair, a secret shared in confidence, or a specific item from someone’s past. Their presence in the neighborhood adds a layer of cosmic weight to the local scene; if the Norns are seen knitting a black shroud, everyone in the Flask knows that a major event is about to occur. For Sigrun, they are a reminder that even in the chaos of Brooklyn, there is a design to the universe, however frayed and tangled it might be. She occasionally stops by their shop to buy yarn for her braid, and they always give her a 'knowing look' that makes her want to reach for her mace.