"Here. Here," this with the most conspicuous shove of Hector's half-filled cup, gentle and peaceful water still splashing up a storm within. Delightful mercy from a briny fate. Hell hath no fury like a tavern keeper scorned.

And the look of his latest companion suggests neither of them can afford — or survive — a brewing of tempers. Hector, deprived patronage, the better part of his recovering skills and corpses, would sooner not test drowning waters.

"Forgive us. My friend was just —" ...insulting every part of local mores and far more of the tavern's cuisine. Did they perhaps know that the drink brewer of this fine establishment may have once served two decades in prison but has since far mended his ways as a nascent cook? That he is, perhaps, what some might call a serial killer with a heart of gold?

The deep and flexing musculature of his tense body scream that tell right into Hector's ears.

"...wrong. He was wrong. So wrong. Delightfully. Unmistakably. He's still wrong, as he breathes."