"Better than," he says; every word understandable to Monty, but the accent strange. Hints of south, and east. Somewhere warm, with a salt sea that the canals eventually drain into. Monty's voice resembles Nadia's as well, though it's not nearly as laced up. It might not even be as deep. "Let me get you something."

Asra doesn't turn to the tables, or pluck a glass from the passing trays. Turning in a flourish of vest and scarves, he picks up one of the pitchers.

"I'm only after a sip; much more than I've had and I'll be using you to stand up." He says it conversationally, not even looking at his hands as he makes a tumbler appear as if from his sleeve, but he's only given a rolling flick of his hand. There's only a moment's break in his collected, showy manner--his brows confer in concentration, and then it's done. Amber liquid pours from the pitcher of water and fills the glass.

"Where I'm from, we make this with almonds and fruit pits," he says, taking his sip before offering it.