"In all h-," the man spoke with the infliction of gravel tread upon by shoe soles, a burp undercutting his statement and making him forget what he was saying. "...is glory," Sawyer finished and gave a slow half-nod to the person addressing him. People in the Dojo knew who he was, yes, but avoided him like the plague. It was unlikely the person addressing him had no ulterior motive. But despite suspicion, Sawyer outstretched his bottle, tremors rippling through his hand and making some of the swill drop from the throat of the concoction.