Let us now imagine, if you will, that this particular man is permitted to go places and do things that involve interacting with other people, unchained, without any guard hanging right over his shoulder like a nervous gargoyle. While we're at it, imagine the barkeep has either risen above popular opinion or remained ignorant of it, and thus served him a pint of stout so strong you could stand a fork in it. A more naïve person might indulge some illusion of freedom, mitigated only by the presence of Inquisition Templars, who glance his way now and then even as they carry on amongst themselves.

While this girl carries on amongst herself, as it were, he scrubs a hand across his pale forehead, over one eye, down his stubbled cheek, looking tired. (He always looks tired.) And when no one else answers her, he does, more or less conversationally:

"Maker's balls... do you ever stop talking?"