Narvin scooted back in his chair a few inches, his eyebrows popping up at the rapidly flick of the knife and the ease with which it cut through the meat. The leg chairs squeak a little on the floor at the movement. His dour mindset being what it was, he couldn't help but imagine what sort of damage that knife could do on living muscle, not just dead and cooked flesh.

He cleared his throat and let his hands rest in his lap to reestablish a calm and unconcerned demeanour.

"Thank you. ...sir." He hadn't called anyone sir since Coordinator Vansell had died. The word felt strange on his tongue.