An explosion, was not something Pyrus had expected... The barfight which ensued broken him away from the draenei, thus annoying him... And a felled gnome spilt it's drink on his robes... For an infintismal flicker of a moment, the man was enraged, beyond fury, past reprehention. Every fiber of his being screamed for spilt blood and the extinguishing of as many miserably pathetic lives as his magic would permit! How DARE these worthless, primitive, disgusting wretches EVER allow themselves to touch something as great and perfect as HE! He would freeze their blood in their veins! Bake their organs within those pitiful collections of meat they call bodies! He would paint the sheltering cliffs of Booty Bay red and black and blue with the blood of man, orc, and draenei alike! This was an outrage! A scandal! And he would not~<br/><br/>The familiar flicker of a tattoo covered arm, discolored by undeath, but no less obvious as belonging to an orc, caught his attention, "Could it be?" He questioned himself, standing perfectly, inhumanly still in the middle of the ravaging barfight. Not a mote of mana spent. The once mage had learned a great many things in his considerable, and extended life. Thankfully for the bar patrans, the ability to inturnalize his wrath was one of those aquired skills. The imposingly tall fellow, with his broad shoulders and pointed hat, took deliberate, measured steps, closing the distance between the Death Knight turned privateer, shamelessly bumping people out of his way. Thankfully, nobody dared to stop or interupt him. "Tarka?" He asked, in his deep, smooth voice, "Tarka of the King's Thirteenth Mounted Cavalry?" An absent wave of his hand was made, a faint glow lining the fingers. A troll who had thankfully avoided the conflict, as well as the stool he sat in, were suddenly sent end over end, into the growing dustcloud of the fight, making room for the 'elf'. "If you are, then well met, if not... Then my apologies."<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>