"Better safe than sorry," he says as mild as milk while dipping a finger into his drink and then drawing on the table in front of them. As he works, there's a little shiver and the bar patrons realign themselves -- it's not that they're ignoring the table so much as they're just unaware there's even a table to pay any attention to.

"This city can't support too many of 'my' kin; we're no sickness or science, but cursed." The constant smile and bonhomie slips for a moment as he continues, "Some traditions can only survive by the hunt and not, as we civilized men do, by trade. I'll talk to her and we'll see what comes of it."