[Of course it is. Alia turns towards the voice with a ferocious scowl, then immediately softens, the pinch in her brow and the steel in her eyes fading away. She accepts the lamb in one arm, then reaches out with her free hand to yank the crysknife from the ruined target. She wields it, gesturing at the carnival barker, who looks moments from passing out.]

You have been fortunate, this day. I will remember this slight.

[The barker swallows hard, roughly the color of greyish porridge. Alia tucks the knife back in it’s sheath at her side, then turns, looping her arm with Diarmuid’s as she does.]

Come, walk with me. I’ll win you a better prize.