The blacktalon, chewing gently on some tobacco, leans forward and spits. A globule of brown, sticky liquid lands an inch from Sam's boots, splattering them. "Somtin et mi?" He asks, mockingly. Even if his words aren't clear, his tone is. "Yeh somtin et mi. Yo be et mi." He slams a hand hard against his chest, standing to his feet, squaring directly up against the half-dragon that is easily a head-and-a-half-taller than him. "Mi know ye. No forgettin' yo face so easy. Tinkin' yo can dead mi brothers, no bother? Mi just let that lie?" He cracks his knuckles and rolls his head, rolling his shoulders to warm up. Healed scars litter his fists and face. "Bossman no let us dead yo, but 'im say notin' bout bloodin'. Raisin' yer hands, scales, we gon have this out."

The others nearby are standing and have begun to form a light ring around Sam, murmurs of excitement about them. Vala has followed quietly behind and now stands just in the shadow of Sam. Though she considers speaking up, she chooses not to - perhaps out of concern that having a woman 'defend' Sam might cause more problems than solve them.