These impossibly kind men! Barcus looks slightly flustered at the dual offer to ease his hands, if also grateful. "It's nothing, really," he protests. "I've just been working in fine detail for hours and it's left me a bit sore. I suppose I might be developing a touch of arthritis, but it's not that bad."

He takes a sip of his wine, stalling, but then relents and sets the cup aside, stepping closer and leaning against the arm of the sofa opposite Viktor. He offers his hands palms-up. "Really, you can have a look, but don't waste energy on it."

He chuckles softly at the nickname. Archmagos. He still needs to come up with one for Viktor, and his mind wanders over gnomish words for a moment. "Mm. Are the two of you celebrating anything in particular, or just having a cozy night in together? I never got around to formally congratulating you on your invention for the revel. Had the judgment been based on long-term usefulness rather than Nymion's whim, you'd have won handily. That will save lives."