Roland stands too, trying to catch the Psiionic's eyes - bit of a guessing game there, trying to catch the gaze of a man who's got no apparent pupils - and giving his head a small but definite shake. No. No pouring drinks on the fire. Letting off steam like this is stupid enough, the product of a couple of split second decisions and Roland's slow-growing store of frustration at sitting so uselessly in this place, but actually hurting the person under all that hair for no better reason than his own restless ire is another thing altogether. If Psiionic tries, Roland will reach out with as much speed as he thinks he needs to try and bat the drink away.

"Drop, s-s-sir," he says, now paying not enough attention to his mouth to cut the genderless sai of his own world out of his speech before it's translated into that. Roland barely notes it, though, instead putting his hand on the capitolite's shoulder and trying to guide them toward the ground. "Like last time. Some of your ah, your hair must still've been a-smoulder."

Time for Roland to make another try at the Psiionic's eyes, then to jerk his head toward the smouldering hair in question. If they want to get away with this, they have to help.