If she were to cringe any further backwards, she might fall clear on over. A vague memory of someone somewhere having told her to stop selling herself short because tearing yourself down before others get the chance is never a winning tactic bubbles up, and then pops, for it's a little late now and she is not giving the terrifying Initiate-but-not-Initiate-at-all-oh-no what he wants.

"It... it's... well, where I'm from, you'd be the most interesting! In... in reverse..." She swallows hard and forces herself to stand straighter and stop cringing. (This just redirects all her energy to shaking, instead.) "...what can I do for you, s-sir?" No, that's not the right way to put it, he's got a title, a big fancy one, one that she cannot remember. "A... a story. I've got stories! I can tell you a story! I've got happy ones! There... there aren't a lot of those! Someone told me there aren't a lot of those..."