Of course, elves weren't the run-of-the-mill humans; they had sharper ears, betters eyes than most, too. But even still, seeing that tiny tendril of black snake out of nowhere and literally yank her blade out of her hand? Amazing, and not in the good way. Instantly, part of her brain kicked in - you know, the part that protects idiotic drunk wayfarers like her from getting killed - and flicked her eyes toward him, finally fully alert.
"Okay, so you're good," she admitted, not afraid, but certainly respectful. Birdie did not hold with magic - didn't like it, didn't use it, didn't even particularly want to hear about it. For her, the most honest way to see the world, to be in it, was to use what you had: hands, feet, knives, ears, eyes. So while she didn't hate it, she didn't trust it. After all, magic had gotten her father killed, and had neglected to save her mother.
But still: she loved a good argument. So, shelving her problems with this person's dark-shadow-snuggle-thingies, she tossed back her head, a rich ripple of hair accenting the throaty gurgle of laughter. "Oh, honey, who ever said anything about playing? I don't really like games." Her words meant nothing; they could have meant anything. She reached down and flipped the razor-sharp stiletto out of its belt holster, twisting it between her fingers to let the light sink into the vivid lapis and iolite inlays. Laying it almost reverently against the bar top, she snaked her fingers around the rocks glass and tossed the whiskey back, giving only the quickest jerk of her head against the vividly painful bite of the alcohol.
"Birdie. And I've never met anyone who could do that before," she added, flicking a glance to the hunting knife still quivering in the deep wood. If the barkeep gave her hell, she'd point them to the mysterious stranger's tab. After all, a handsome man with an understanding of bladework? They didn't come along every other day.