[Well at least there's that. Mercifully, the Meradan replaces the thin little blade into the black box and pat his friend (or servant) on the shoulder, offering him a very cheerful 'Thank you for all the trouble,' before turning back to the two Carubauschians.

Welp.

He tosses the edge of his heavy cloak back with a clearly habitual flourish and undoes the multitude of buttons at his sleeves so he can effectively roll them.]

You know, I haven't done much fist fighting since I was an adolescent. I wasn't aware this was such a prevalent thing on the smaller outer worlds. No offense meant, of course. It's charming.

[In an old fashioned, blood sport kind of way.

Eventually though, he can stall no longer. Sleeves rolled well up past his tropically colored forearms, cloak reasonably out of the way, he widens his stance and puts up his fists.]

All right. I'm ready.