The grin grows wider. Perfect. An excellently crafted and delivered scheme to dissuade them. Now all he had to do was strike the final nail into the coffin of this abhorrent potential union of their groups. Before anything could ever hope to disrupt his ambitions.

"Ah, I would ask your forgiveness for making assumptions, but it is my understanding that the Bleak Cabal were the hopeless sort who needed others to guide their hands and point their blades. If it is your desire to risk yourself and your neck for your pride, then far be it from Zaraknvyr of Arabndar to stop you."

He raises his mug.

"To the continued indecision of the Bleak Cabal. To the strength of their arms. May they sleep deep and dream full, indeed. May they gaze into the order of things and see nothing."

He licks his teeth, staring at Fyodor, and drinks of his mug deeply until it was empty. Then he placed it harshly upon the bar. Paradoxically, his own pride and unyielding disgust produces a somewhat moderate sentence next;

"Your blood is safe from me." His nose wrinkles. "So long as you do not get in my way, you are not my foe nor my meal. I pray you do not regret the day you turned away Zaraknvyr. Our path is one you may yet wish you had someone who had some actual convictions at your side."