If you would grant them, good sir, they would be of aid... [one hand still crossed over her chest, pressing the rag into the wound over a shoulder, the other reaches up. She tips her over sized hat to the side to catch it. It spills red liquid from the side of the brim, rain mixed up with the red dust, Maria sets it down on the bar. Her hair is stark silver white, pale as her skin.]

Yet, I have already troubled you, without payment no less. [despite the words church out front, she didn't suspect this to be a place of charity.]