Probably, somewhere in the circus, someone might uncharitably think something like: speaking of sellswords. Adventurers have always occupied an interesting place in the Faerûn zeitgeist: the heroic stars of centuries of tales of derring-do, averting various apocalypses, fishing children and kittens out of trees and/or the grasp of wood woads they unwarily wandered too close by. Then again, hurricane people sweeping into and out of lives that they violently alter, taking with them coin and dignity, eyes following the gleam of gold and hands, well.

The less said the better.

For the time being, Athénaïs is indeed feted as the hero of the hour, so most of the circus is at least giving her party their elbow room to clean themselves up, wiping blood from weapons and rifling through the belongings of the imposter that had certainly done away with the unfortunate clown. (Astarion seems a little disappointed they didn't actually kill a clown, but she's prepared to make a case later that it counts because the assassin did perform most of the show and had without a doubt had to do several uninterrupted before they obligingly showed up to kick his fucking head in.)

There is a lot of blood, but there aren't any dead children. A small mercy. The aforementioned elbow-room she's had to appraise that in means that Tieve's purposeful stride draws her attention immediately, and she tilts her head, taking her in.

“You don't look like you're about to tell me to have a treato.”