Noah cocked an eyebrow. "You know I could have you killed, right?"

Probably not the nicest or most constructive first words to exchange, but Noah wasn't feeling especially nice. He started it, anyway.

He stood up from his chair, stepping over the massive hound, which didn't stir. He had stripped to the waist, leaving him in trousers and a fur girdle for warmth, his thin, straw-colored hair held back from his face with a tie. A knife was tucked into the girdle, a simple one in a simple sheath, sharp enough but meant more as a tool than a weapon. Despite being a man grown, he didn't grow a beard easily yet, but he did bear the mark of adulthood, a scar on his arm darkened with pigment and another on his back. Another long, thin scar marked his ribcage, and he was tall, but lithe and willowy rather than thick, like those he'd seen of George's tribe.

Since this slave apparently wasn't going to be respectful of his place, Noah didn't see any reason to respect him first, so he skipped over the name and the drink he might otherwise have offered. "Take off your clothes."