One ear flicks, nerves that she can't hide, but she reaches out to clasp his hand. hers is warm, but her hands are calloused from physical work and holding a sword.

"Mo'rtajha Tykha, ser Jack." Still purring her words, Mort gives a small curtsy as well, being careful to keep her night gown from slipping up from the motion - but only by the barest of margins.

"And that is a fine idea," So fine that she latches onto his arm, gluing herself to his side if he permits it. It's far better to keep him talking, so she gently prods, "What Grand Company do you hail from? The Eorzean Alliance? Ishgard, perrrhaps?"