The only word she recognizes from that oddly specific request is brewery. After a mostly botched attempt to cook her own meal in the kitchen--not as easy as it seems when she's more used to cooking over an open fire--Ciri had tried the replicator herself and gotten fairly good results. She thinks she's being quite helpful when she steps confidently up beside Matt and removes the pint of questionable liquid to make room for something else. Surely it's just that he doesn't know how to ask for what he wants, right?

"Beer," she announces. A few strands of ashen hair flop over her forehead as she leans toward the machine, speaking slowly and a touch too loudly. Obediently, the replicator...replicates.

The next pint produced is a less alarming color, dark amber and frothy, but certainly nothing like a saison. But of course, unlearned in the ways of craft beer, the problem is solved as far as Ciri is concerned. Her free hand goes to her hip when she stands up straight again, tall enough to be of a height with Matt. "That's more like it." She turns to him with a satisfied grin that tugs on the faint scar near the corner of her mouth. "Sorry, you did want beer, didn't you?"