"The only sort of clubs I handle, darling," Jay says, coming up just short of uncomfortably close, "tend to be attached to people by means other than a mere grip."

He smiles up at Fraysong, head tilted to one side, eyes hooded. A little voice in his head murmurs but Raimut and he brushes it aside. Raimut isn't here and surely he wouldn't mind? Plus, though he wouldn't admit it while sober and composed, the old man's been steadily getting on his nerves these past few months. A brief change of, ahem, scenery, might be good. At worst, it'd teach him to be thankful for what he has.

Had.

Maybe he' never going back, after all. He shoves that thought into a proverbial dark closet and slams the door on it. Instead, he gives his full attention to the troll.

"I've never killed anyone," he says. "Someone else does my dirty work for me. The benefits of being well-loved by the powerful, eh, dear?"