I don't want to be here at all, you cow.

[Even his curse sounds rather flat. He keeps staring at his hand... then leans down to drag his tongue over the wound, ignoring the remaining glass. Enough to dribble down his chin.

He swallows, waiting... Nothing. As expected]

Tch. You won't get much of a fight from me- I'm a chef, not a... a sword or whatever you call yourself.