Fakir is not the generally social type. But he is, to some extent at least, an artist. He'd come to watch the performances last year and ended up dancing himself. He may again - for all that dance is something that belongs more to Mytho and Ahiru, he hates the idea of getting too out of practice. That would make him out of step with them, after all.

There's another appeal to the party, too. The assurance that you can practice whatever powers you have without them going wrong. Even after a year, Fakir is wary of the sheer potential of his Darkblood powers. He knows he's right to be. But wariness can be a liability in a crisis, and there are too many of those in Trench. He'd be an idiot not to take advantage of a safe opportunity to practice.

So for now he sits at the bar, watching the acts while writing on a napkin. He's trying to see how few words he can use to affect something. What was originally steaming hot tea in a mug beside him is currently a block of ice, the result of the word freeze.

He leans back, surprised, as the man leans over to him. Well, the party certainly goes with the fellow's fashion sense, even if his affect is unchanged.

Fakir considers the pipe for a moment, eyeing its bowl like someone evaluating an antique. Then he glances back down at his napkin and simply writes burn. There is a hiss from the pipe bowl as the contents are set alight.