[There was a tone there, something warning him in the back of his head. For a second, he saw another woman seated where she was; a redhead in black armor with a knowing smirk on her face. Women. Women doing men's work -- and giving him a bruised jaw in the process.

Then the image faded and he was left with the silver-haired, daintier version sitting beside him, but that image told him what her tone meant. Women who didn't like being judged by men. Right.]

I would, if I thought you'd take me up on it. Consider it an open invitation, in case that one bruises your delicate rear end too much.

[Madmartigan; so suave with the ladies. Well, to be fair, it worked on the lowly types. There was nary a wench he couldn't wink at and convince to part ways with a couple hours back home. Problem was, even he knew this wasn't home.]