He'd have to burn his suit. That was the only answer. Twice in the span of a few seconds Barsad had been bumped into, first by a Faldkrest warrior who stank of harsh tobacco, and then by a young Order mechanic in grease covered robes.
Despite his title, Sir Nero was not a man given to class and station. He had seen too many so-called nobles and gentlemen make blubbering, lecherous messes of themselves when they were in their cups, or thought themselves in private. Similarly, he knew it was within the capacity of any commoner to rise far above his assigned lot in life. Was he not, after all, the very shining proof of that?
No, it wasn't that these plebeians could deign to assault a baronet with impunity, but that they had turned a previously very fine -- and very expensive -- suit into a grease rag that reeked evilly of cheap cigar smoke.
Barsad turned to the young Order man, raised an accusatory finger in the air, and was prepared to drive it with great force and purpose into the boy's chest, when, rising clear as a bell over the background din of the docks, came a rather indelicate remark about his age from the winged halfling to her Order puppeteer.
He forgot the young man completely. A cold, impassive smile sketched itself onto his face. He stood up straight and turned to the recently arrived captain. A dignified-looking Faldkrest, ver Niklos seemed to be in his middle age, if the grey coloration of his jaw fringe was anything to go by. Then again, Barsad thought, the premature discoloration of scales in younger Faldkrest males was also indicative of a family of diseases in their species that went under the collective colloquialism of "The Creeping Rot" in certain social circles of ill-repute. He briefly considered asking Captain ver Niklos if he had ever enjoyed any leisure time in the district of Port Titanicus charmingly referred to by locals as Reptile Row, but decided that accusing one's captain of whoremongering was likely frowned upon in genteel company, however salaciously scaly the ladies of Bawdy Bettie's Taverne & Ye Olde Rumpus Roome may have been.
Instead, he gave a crisp nod of the head to ver Niklos, and said, "Captain."
He turned to Sonne. "Senior Agent Sonne," he said imperiously, "I am Barsad. You have heard of me, of course. I've little time to waste, so I'll keep this brief. I am here to make your job easier, and to do that I shall be requiring a sterile operating theatre, and whatever files you may have on the creatures we are likely to come across, as well as prioritized access to any biological specimens we acquire."
And finally he turned to the smart-mouthed little halfling.
"And you," he said, leveling a finger at her, "will see me in my laboratory as soon as possible. Those lackwits who grafted Shattertech onto you may have had plenty of toys, but they don't know the first thing about halfling anatomy. They've completely failed to account for your kind's atrophied serratus posterior superior muscle, which I would wager is why you feel incredible pain whenever you utilize those impressive wings of yours, correct? Yes, yes, and of course I'll need to examine whatever lamentable hatchet job they performed on your obturator nerve. Or in terms even you can understand" -- and here he paused to puff out his chest -- "I need to see where your fleshy bits meet your non-fleshy bits."
He tipped his hat to them.
"A pleasure to meet you all," he said, and made his way to the boarding ramp.
