How could he possibly turn this down? He reclines and crosses one leg over another beneath the table, smirking coyly. “Hm… sounds fascinating.” He pushes his drink aside. He would let not another drop touch his lips until he’s penalized and thereby obligated to do so.
Not that he intends on it.
“Sounds like I’ll be starting, then.”
A quid pro quo format with a consequence that makes getting the answers easier. It’s the perfect game for a man like Yan Qing. He’s all too familiar with the alcohol (immunity to it aside; he won’t be mentioning that), and even more so with high-stakes trials. Experience sees him become a snake before his acquaintance— one that ensnares and strangles indolently. He flashes his own tongue that should very well be forked before laughing. A mental note of the ink on the other’s tongue: a peculiar symbol. He won’t ask about it too soon, however, as that subtle glow behind black slits catches his eye far quicker. Eyebrows raise with enlightenment as to the particulars of a fitting way to begin their game. Yan Qing isn’t known for playing easy… or fair.
He straightens out in his chair and lays an arm along the length of the table; as close to the man as he could be without touching him. Concentrating, he would choose every word carefully: “My first question… won’t you show me what’s under your mask?” Beneath the table, he’s already busying himself with foiling the opponent. Shifting, he makes certain to brush a foot gently against the man’s leg. The tiniest of actions prove distracting, and with effort Yan Qing might get by with sealed lips.
A dangerous game, but a classic. Not the first time he’s played, but those times were usually at the guild, surrounded by broken wood and empty pints, with a guildmate or his teammates at the receiving end of his invasive questions. He doesn’t usually end up here, with a stranger on the other side, and not a single thing known to swipe off the table.
“Heh, wouldn’t be nice of the host t’ start off anyway!” He’s got no complaints-- he wants to see what this guy cooks up first. Besides, what’s the bad part? He drinks or he learns something interesting about his nightly companion. Either seem pretty damn good in his book.
Bickslow sniggers at the mimicking, glass merely being tilted back and forth inches above the scarred wood. But he is paying attention, quite raptly-- there’s not a lot he wants to miss here. He wants the arm that stretches out near him, taking the moment to examine before flickering his gaze back to those eyes, only blinking once at the question. Then twice, fingers lightly loosening their grip as something slides across his leg, concealed by the table. Alright, it distracts him for a moment. He’ll give’em that. Not like he isn’t a walking distraction anyway, but....
“Goin’ for the gold already? Geez, talk about not pullin’ any punches!” The glass doesn’t move, neither away nor closer, but his toothy grin falls into line, as if he’s deep in thought (not that it’s easy to tell, what with only have a visage to go off), before it splits his features again.
“I could.” It’s an answer, isn’t it? “But don’t ya think it’s something ya gotta earn? For instance....” He moves in the lightest, leaning forward with chin in hand and extending his leg just a bit further than what it was. His turn. “Why do ya wanna see it? Maybe I’m hidin’ it ‘cause I’m some freaky monster!”
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