He knows about the service industry, knows what it's like when somebody takes up your table when you could be making tips, so he slides a little coin her direction as soon as she wanders over because he's not a huge douchebag.

"Tattoos," he answers, sitting back to start diligently wiping the station down again. Sanitizing as best he can with strong alcohol and magic flames. It ain't exactly tattoo parlor clean, but they have magic healers. It'll be fine. "Protection sigil."

Short, to the point, but not unkind. Feel free to probe.