Marcella's rolling her eyes and grabbing the wine bottle to refill her glass. Zenithar, give her patience. Ushug's got to deal with these things the way she wants. Her business partner can only try and enjoy the show. Not that it wouldn't be satisfying to watch Ushug smack him into the table, but it won't really prove anything, will it?

Ushug isn't so hung up on the philosophical details. She's locking hands with Harrow, apparently unperturbed by the chill of his skin. Her grip is strong, her skin callused and weathered from decades of smithing, matching the small scars here and there on her face.

"Careful your arm doesn't fall off," she taunts back. Her other hand slams down on the table: one, two, THREE! And they're on! Fire-forged orcish brawn against the unholy strength of the dead. Steel-shaper against bone-breaker! Locked in a duel for the ages, teeth bared across the table.

Marcella decides to keep the bottle.