Micolash's lower lip presses into the upper in a disappointed pout before he softly chides, "Language..." Then the display is finished, tentacles retracted, some falling as though cut free but turning into silver mist when soundlessly hitting the floor. The man's hand reforms, his forearm is once more smooth featureless flesh. He twists his wrist a few times, flexes his fingers, then lowers his arm entirely once more.

"Have I offended?" Why else would someone respond with such distaste and vehemence?