Faolan raises his eyebrows at the man. At first he'd been annoyed -- not only is that his seat, but that's his drink as well. But then the guy starts spouting nonsense, and -- though it's hardly the first time Faolan has heard a man go off his rocker, it certainly is a first for a man who's dressed like this, in a bar such as this one. Surely they wouldn't have let him in if he was this mad, would they? And what the hell is he talking about? Is he having some kind of fit? Some kind of vision?

"Hey," Faolan says, his tone a bit more placating than it had been a moment before. "Are you alright?" Of course he isn't, but Faolan needs more from him, some sign that there's anyone home, something. He notices the glass groaning and swallows hard. "I think you should put that down," he says, indicating the tumbler. Hoping that he will. Breaking such a thing in your fist, while impressive, is liable to give a nasty cut as well. And provide you with one hell of a weapon to boot.