He chuckled, the smile flashing a mouthful of gold teeth. He decorated himself well, even where he knew the rest of his face was marred with scars and age.

"A keen sense of taste. I've heard from Gallifreyans that Transmute lingers on the tongue for hours." He pulled out a napkin, inside of it a blue vial, and slipped it across the table to Narvin before the waiter came over to take his order. Targ, stir fried, and Romulan Ale. He allowed the gentleman to take it before he folded his currently gloved hands (hiding the tattoos) on the table before him.

"It seems that I have a problem, a larger one than usual, and you're the one most convenient to fix it."