"Only half useless?" He stares down at his hands, with their assortment of callouses - the ones from his years of swordwork nearly gone, the ones from Chenqing standing in their place, the ones from working the fields new and just on the wrong side of angry.

"Which half?" He asks, with a laugh that is only a near neighbor to humor, and it doesn't really matter what the answer is. His posture rapidly deteriorates as the wine catches up with him, leaving him sprawled half-on the table, the half-empty jar cuddled up in his arms.