The gown the woman wears registered as older than Persephone herself is from, but ain't really something that means anything in a time when folks are dragging cloth from anywhere they get it. But it's the woman's eyes and voice that make her think she's from a begone era: the slightly wild way she watches the other women. Either that or she's a prude and Persephone tries not to just judge people like that right off.

Persephone's voice is husky and low, smoke and ash. "Nope, sure don't unless it ain't none of them. They all just don't taste right. They got nothin' to em: no sunshine, no rain, no drought, no thunderstorms or cold. They're too damned perfect and it makes the fruit of the vine lackin' in taste. It's a god damn tragedy." Humphing after her words, Persephone's hand just fumbles in the bodice of her dress and she pulls out a silver flask shaped like a ring. Unscrewing the top with an exceptionally practiced hand (some earth civilizations had risen and fell since she'd started drinking out of this here thing) and she offers it to the woman. "Here, try this. Careful though, it's got a kick."