"I could keep making drummer jokes all day," Nico said, making herself comfortable where she sat.

"I like sewing," she answered, jabbing the needle part way through the cloth of her project so she could gesture at the outfit she was wearing -- the white long-sleeved blouse she'd come here wearing (since modified with a length of black ribbon and a few loops of thread to create a removable empire waist), worn over a wine colored camisole with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows, the dark gray capris (with enlarged and reinforced pockets), the red and white striped tights (she'd had to cheat and use magic just a bit to adjust the candy-apple shade to something more appropriate for her wardrobe).

"My clothes don't come off the rack looking like this, and I didn't really have the funds to pay other people for it even before I was a homeless runaway. But I'm good at it and it gives me something to do with my hands."

The rolled up sleeves did mean that the scars on her forearms were visible, but at least "dinosaur bite" and "battle axe injury" looked more like she been in a fight than that she'd been cutting herself.