There were easier ways to make money or so she had been told. It didn't really matter to Sorcha that she skimped by because as she saw it, times were lean, and besides, she was starting to slowly get a clientele going. Then again she also had to worry that if one of her potions didn't exactly work to the effect the user assumed it would that she would have cops banging on her studio door to drag her off for questioning. Fraud, they called it, and swindling and a few other choice words that made her teeth grind with impatience. They were inept is all it really was and many of the normal humans, well, they didn't have but half a brain either. She never promised a complete cure, only that it was supposed to do this or that but there was always a chance someone's body would reject it. Some witches preferred potions brewed on the potency of magic where she preferred the old fashioned method: herbs, administered in the proper way as needed. The fine art of many herbalists was forgotten but she had managed to scrap up old books in her early days and knew just what plants would make good poultices or brews. It was a dying art, she figures, what with the invention of ibuprofen and pain pills. At least HER brews weren't likely to cause a liver malfunction but try explaining that to the masses of people who scoffed at her primitive methods.

In the midst of her walk down the shady alley closer to the harbor she had gotten off topic in her mind, inwardly growing frustrated with how poorly her sells had been of late. More often than not they worked but those people were just as hard pressed to convince their friends to try such methods as she was. Just get a job, her mother had said over the phone in exasperation. Your a pretty girl, Sorcha. I told you, you should have stayed here and found you a nice Warlock to marry. Needless to say her parents views of her life were quite different than her own and she always told them how she was much happier where she was than in their home country of Scotland, where her parents had moved back after a few years in the States.

Noises catch her attention and mossy green eyes snap forward to see people jostling each other and the start of growls in the back of throats that sounded distinctly non-human. She was close. She had managed to squeeze out details from some scummy man a few streets back through the bribery of a few bottles of booze (which she had brought in such an event) and some spare money. Not that any money was spare these days but if things worked out like she was hoping then it might mean a greater return on her investment.

She eyes the cargo ship which, although considered abandoned, had quite a few people lingering about, and with a bracing breath walks up the plank while decidedly ignoring the narrow-eyed stares she was getting. On her back rests a bulging burlap backpack carrying all her supplies, potions, and brews, in hopes that this would go smoothly, although one hand finds itself rubbing down her dark jean-clad leg in sudden nervousness. She knew where she was and judging by the heightened sense of agitation, these creatures were ready for the fights to start. It wouldn't do her any good to be in the middle of it - just on the side-lines.

Sorcha pauses on the deck, glancing about and trying to feel a modicum of confidence that she normally had before easing a breath past her lips and striding up determined to one of the loitering men, who was leaning against one of the crates with a crafty look to his eyes. "Who is in charge of this establishment?" Her voice is beautiful, it was always fascinating to her parents considering theirs was a raspy tone while hers was smooth and could hold a tune easily. "I need to speak to them before the.. uh, games?.. begin," she presses on, making sure to keep her eyes square on his lest this male think she was weak or fair game. Getting mugged was NOT part of her plan tonight.