If he's not the total first, he's at least a first. Not a bad consolation prize. Matthias grins, flushed with some emotion adjacent to pride--pride in his future self, maybe, who is kicking major arse as the first mercenary-mage of the Free Marches--and grabs his ale for another gulp as the food is delivered.

He's not so entrenched in the mug so as to miss the waitress, or that exchange. Cool. Maker, what does he have to do to be this guy? Or as like this guy as possible. He watches the waitress go, momentarily distracted by the figure she cuts through the crowds. Someday, it'll be him. Guaranteed. And there's a new admiration when he finally looks back at Krem, and grabs for a big hunk of bread to tear into.

"I've been in my share. Y'know. It happens." Deliberately casual. He takes a bite and chews a little, but elaborates with his mouth full: "We were living elbow to elbow in the Circle, and there were some real pricks around. And then it was the camp, and the war and all, which's a bit more dramatic than fist-fights, but not much different, when all's said and done. Specialty's fire." He makes a little gesture with his free hand, a wiggly finger motion to denote flames. No flames appear. He tries to know better than to do any deliberate displays. "Useful as it is destructive. I reckon I could be a brilliant asset, s' long as they give me a chance."