Horst would not be wrong in his assessment of potential motives for Bagoas' effortless charm. One does not survive the Royal Household of ancient Persia without a touch of cunning and other skills to match. He listens, following the line of the tall man's gaze in subtle flicks of his own: Jason Blood, who still to this day unsettles him for no apparent reason other than a blatant disrespect for the unwritten rules of conversation, and one of the newcomers, whose acquaintance he would rather not make at all (intriguing and otherworldly as he may well be). Perhaps with some gentle nudging, he might find out what dealings Horst has entered into with them both. Perhaps not. It is a matter of the right time and place, and this is neither.

So instead he slits his eyes towards Horst, chuckling softly at his remark on social skills, why yes indeed it is a treacherous game, and placing one hand on the polished counter, manoeuvres himself onto the bar stool. While he knows for a fact his stature is an advantage when speaking to men (for it is a man's preference to be superior, and any physical aspect that furthers that end gives them a sense of it), he is not above using proximity as a means to his own end. He crosses his ankles neatly, angling his upper body towards Horst; everything he does, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, has only one purpose: to be as pleasing to the eye as is humanly possible.

One delicate, long-fingered hand lifts to shield his mouth from anyone but his newfound ally. On closer inspection, it is painted, with golden nails to match. "And what does a discerning gentleman, so well acquainted with the games men play, make of such a motley crowd?"