"Hm? O-oh, right. I'd like the barmen's severed head, with a side of bone marrow if that's possible. I haven't tried old man-head in a while, and I'd like to open my repertoire. You know me, always wanting to be a competent chef." Zephyrlink taps his fingers on the table gently, bespeckled with the unmistakable grey of bruises. He straightens the folds of his robes, and stares directly at his companion, Hawk, who seemed to have grown a smirk.

"What now? Something wrong with my face?" Hawk continues smirking, but Zephyrlink looks away dismissively, his attention moving to the group of orcs that had entered the bar premises. Thankfully he hadn't used any of his abilities, so those were definitely not voodoo-casters--to his fortune. Zephyr could only put his mind to the torture he had suffered as a newborn, and the nightmarish face of his master.

The tension in his muscles brought him to bashing the table with his fists, out of the blue.