His eyebrows do a thing on his face—first furrowing and then quirkjng upward toward the neighboring hairline of dark curls—over the possibility of chopping his right hand off. Wouldn't that be nice? Shame about—

"No, I'm attached to it," He says around the cigarillo while working the fingers in question opened and closed for emphasis. "So you can stop swearing your demon oaths at me."

Dear Momma, You'll be gratified to hear that I went to Riftwatch and that all the spirits there said naughty words, he will not actually write in a letter, on account of not caring to have a Chantry inquiry to muddle through on top of everything else. And if there were one woman in the world who might see it done—

Well. Best not to risk it.

Also, it's a joke.