“Quite.” He says. Here, a tangle of a moment in which he appears to waft into a muted daydream, peering off into it. Bat an eye, it had elapsed. Some gossamer recall, a stringing beyond the reaches of his bleary vision. A scarlet smudge of long strands, silken, a haunt of hair, a body. His earlier misdeed returned to prick and sting him, but he was not stung. He’d lobbed his eyes over Fletcher’s shoulder, seeing it. No one else could.
“Settled.” He says, when his eyes meet Flecther’s again. He admires a man that asks for what he wants. He likes this one more than he had ten minutes ago. Alton was useful in stoking this ones reactions, he notes. He can see why the witch woman keeps him around.
A pause.
“Why, fer such a sum, one could verily remain in comfort for the remainder of ones life. Bloody well could make a pay off on the bounty they’d acquired on their head… “
Not a flinch; it isn’t a threat. It is only to make him aware.
“These are dicey dealings, racy and boorish. I understand your hesitation. When shall we expect delivery?”