Naturally, having a sword pointed at you is not an entirely pleasant experience, leading Settionne to take a step away from the blade as he raised his eyebrows. He supposed the Lizardman was rather smarter than he'd given it credit for, but nothing he'd said warranted having a sword aimed at him, surely? He might have to confiscate that later (for everyone else's safety, of course), at least until the Lizardman needed it. Still, the intended effect of persuading the Lizardman to join their party was nonetheless achieved, though further conversation about the point was interrupted by the arrival of an... interesting man. Very old, yet very muscular, and surprisingly jovial for somebody who, inexplicably, had decided to live on the outskirts of the Southlands. He could clearly handle it, of course; a trident like that was probably very useful, and sure to be worth a lot, perhaps even able to be sold as new, if only the flecks of blood on the points were cleaned away. The question about Werewolves was rather odd, though. The sort of thing that'd make you ask questions about the asker's profession...

And then the Lizardman asked if, what was his name, the Elf's Elk was friend or food, then directing the question at Sett himself. How rude. Not that he could exactly question an obviously-superior fighter, even as it proceeded to try and intimidate him with its words. Best to give the appropriate impression of his profession, he supposed: 'No, no, not at all, good sir!' he began waffling in a rapid and scared tone. 'I suppose I'd be annoyed too if a large group of strangers entered into my home! Rest assured, none of us are at all edible, least of all myself! Trust me when I say, my flesh is quite stringy and tough, with a very unbecoming flavour, not at all befitting of the palate of a bea- [i]eing,[/i]' he stuttered, cutting himself off with a choking cough to hide his near-slip up. No good calling the Lizardman a beast, primitive as it was, and no good continuing in that tone if it meant he lost himself in his words and got stabbed for the trouble.

'P-pardon me, frog in my throat,' Sett continued with a small, apologetic smile, patting his chest and speaking in a more reasonable manner. 'I'm hardly used to the, ah, [i]aroma[/i] of a swamp such as this... as I was saying, your palate is surely better acclimated to the flesh of the mighty beasts you slay than of our small group. You mentioned you'd lost your home?' he rambled on, wanting to get past the topic of flesh eating before the Lizardman changed his mind about that. 'I am sorry for your loss; if it helps, I shall pray for you and for your aforementioned home, if you so desire me to of course.' A more friendly smile punctuated the end of his sentence; once again, there was no need to aggravate this Lizardman, as that could lose both its assistance and his own life in the process.

Actually, now that he thought about it, he really did want to end his conversation with the Lizardman, even if that meant being forced to talk to the strange man who had just approached them. For all Sett knew, the man could be a Werewolf himself! Would any other being really want to live in the wilderness of the Southlands beyond the confines of even the barest notion of a civilisation? Even a small village, practically hanging from its fingernails... actually, no, he didn't know the man hadn't travelled from such a place. He supposed it made sense not to assume the man was in fact a wildling, though he still ought to be cautious nonetheless. With his luck, he'd be just as skilled a warrior as the Lizardman, making a clean theft nigh-impossible. A pity, that.