[At the mention of romantic endeavours, she softly groans. Perhaps she's fucked. Totally doomed to always fall for the wrong kind of woman, such as ancient warriors who kill all her friends or vicious, pious Reverend Daughters who seem to contain all the sex-drive of the dried-up stick she resembles. This is not how she envisioned things going for her.]

Ugh, don't remind me. It's probably a lost cause. You'll have much better luck with teaching me to cook than wishing me well in the romance department, and I say that as someone who doesn't have the first fucking clue about preparing food.

[She sighs, then slumps back against the boards beneath her, propped up on just her elbows. Wine sloshes over the bottle's rim, and she makes a disappointed clicking noise with her tongue at the wasted droplets.]

Giving a shit, though. It's definitely worth hanging on to.