After a year here, Maria has assimilated to the point at which she is indistinguishable from a native. All right, maybe not, but only the very sharp-eyed will be able to detect the fact that she is from many centuries ago, and certainly not by her style of dress.

Similarly, she's seen enough imPorts come and go that she doesn't immediately recognize when one is from a place and time close to her own origin—very close, in this case. She's on the way to a particular shop that specializes in chain mail repair for renaissance faire patrons when she recognizes a dialect of Arabic she hasn't heard in quite some time. Wheeling around, she spots an angry one-armed man whose appearance isn't as familiar as his manner of speech.

Probably she shouldn't stare in surprise, but then she's never excelled at manners.