[Silco, you look just like a man he'd find in a seedy drug den with his miner buddies, he's immediately keen.

Showing no sign that he's bothered by the pervasive scent of whiskey or cigar smoke, Tyki hums thoughtfully. The part of him squirming at the idea of his soul's destruction — the Noah, certainly, in preservation of its millennial existence — is masked by an artful composure.]

'Nearly anything', the man says. Well. Good to know. It'd be nice to have some more specifics, but beggars can't be choosers, eh? [He drifts toward one of the tables laden with alcohol and pours himself his own glass of throat-scorching whiskey.] Guess I'll have to be careful not to let anyone get their hands on it. I've noticed it can be taken out of the body, but that's about the extent of my own experimentation.

What are your thoughts on all this?