Tavi's eyebrow goes up a little as he purses his lips thoughtfully, flipping through a mental card catalogue of other worlds. He can pick up a few things already, though, including the designation "elf". (He also picks up that they're in a distinctly uncomfortable position, and represses the urge to wrinkle his nose in sympathy.

"The sacred right of the soldier to complain to his commanding officer," he explains dryly. "Respectfully, of course."

My ass hurts.
My ass hurts, sir.
Sacred right, sir. Sacred right.