To be fair, any slight wariness is something both parties may share. Hannibal didn't come here expecting that the warning to bring protection had meant absolutely nothing. Even his own hubris doesn't blind him to the possibility that this could be a very simple, very obvious trap. No matter how confident he is that he can defend himself or escape, there's a certain level of watchfulness for the time that he might need any of those skills.

But it's not in his shoulders, or in the hand resting on the counter. It's not in his stance as he drapes himself into a chair. The only space that might have room for it is his eyes, which have a layer of watchful steel beneath the playful silver. But he smiles slightly; first just with curling lips, and then with the skin around his eyes. "Mmm. Not a bad deal, is it, these days?" Another coin has appeared between thin fingers. The metal is just as cold as his skin, and it makes a tinny clatter against its brethren when he flicks it into the mug.

His lips still and purse in thought. "Connaissez-vous des chansons dans cette langue? I'm not feeling terribly picky. I'll trust your instinct." That language also has an accent to it, as strong as in his Common, but perhaps a bit less than in Cynric's tongue - he clearly learned it after he learned his own, after Cynric's language. But it has an ease to it, with nothing straining for pronunciation; someone used to dissecting these things might assume he spoke it longer than the others. His fingers gain a bit more slack to them when he speaks it, and his shoulders, already lax, seem to sink more deeply.

But then he's back to the focus, and it all wafts away in the stale indoor breeze.