A brief look of confusion appeared on the warlock's face when Barir reacted to his introduction in a frightened, perhaps even hostile fashion. The previously friendly to neutral demeanor disappeared, replaced by the look of raw, naked emotion struggling to surface as the Beast made its presence known.<br/><br/>The look on Sebastian's face tightened immediately, his eyes wide with the sudden realization of danger; he hadn't expected such a strong reaction and almost took a step back - almost, but his own self-control asserted itself and he quickly forced himself to visibly relax: his jaw unclenched; his hands, tightened to fists, color fleeing where the nails bore into his own flesh, came loose again.<br/><br/>It was a stark reminder for him. Though he put on a brave face of assured self-control, the sudden barely controlled aggression Barir showed made his own vulnerability all too apparent. As much as Sebastian liked to think himself a superior being now, far removed from mortal frailty, he was no fighter. This kindred before him could likely tear him apart with little effort, if cut loose, and there was very little he could do about it, except hope that the third party in this conversation, Art Morgan, felt like stepping in before he was killed rather than after.<br/><br/>His mind raced, meanwhile: it had been his declaration of being Tremere that had set Barir off, hadn't it? His clan was feared by many, certainly far from well-liked, but in modern nights rarely met with that much hostility as far as he was aware. But perhaps the notion he had entertained and dismissed earlier was true: perhaps Barir belonged to the Assamite clan and the rage he directed at him was that of a clan long restrained by the Tremere's blood-curse. Or perhaps Barir just had some beef with Sebastian's brethren, wherever he came from.<br/><br/>"Of … of course," Sebastian offered in response, snapped out of his panic-induced guesswork when Barir suddenly spoke. Though he had previously managed to keep himself together, just barely, his posture relaxed a little when the Assamite passed him by. Almost automatically, he adjusted his tie, then turned to Art once again.<br/><br/>Art's offer, to his surprise, sounded rather appealing. After that sudden shock. Despite the many years of abstinence, his conviction that he had overcome any lingering dependencies or disreputable habits, it sounded very good right now. Indecision flickered over his face for a moment. "I," he finally began, resolve slowly returning to his voice, "appreciate the offer, but I don't think whatever gripe he has so readily overcome." He briefly pulled a grimace, then added more quietly: "… and I'm trying to put that sort of thing behind me. Not too conductive to getting ahead in the clan." His old excuse, that he was getting too old for this sort of thing, didn't really fly among vampires.<br/><br/>The Tremere paused, an unusual twinge of regret on his face - another admission that the encounter had shaken him more than he liked to admit when compared to his usually unflappable mannerisms. "But if you need any supplies, the offer stands."