"It looks like someone scribbled dickbutt on you," Salem lied. In all honestly, the symbol looked pretty radical, but it was entirely unfamiliar to him despite all the free time he spent studying the paranormal. Must have been one of those things that the history books didn't pick up. He turned his attention to his own brand, and rubbed his opposite hand's thumb over it to see if it was permanent. It was most definitely not rubbing off, and didn't even feel any different in comparison to the rest of his palm's skin. He had been expecting some gross scar tissue to pop up over it, but thankfully it was quite tattoo-like.<br/><br/>Solomon nodded. "It's done, and that's about all the time we have for anything today. Unless you'd like to try your luck against those fellows outside, I'd suggest taking the rest of the hour to stick around and relax. Less a chance of unnecessary injuries before you're sent home." He carefully took both of the bowls and flew them to a shelf high above the ground, kept closed with a glass case. He hooked himself onto the shelf with his foot and wing claws, and carefully set them inside for safe keeping.<br/><br/>Salem remained seated, looking towards Joe. "Well, that happened," He mumbled. "What should we do? You wanna just stay put?"