"It's only a guess, one with little clearer understanding behind it." Quietly, he makes more room for doubt in his own theories. What right does he have to question the bounds of their new reality after a lifetime of denying the existence of beings and gods? None, really. His confidence is a bone picked clean of its meat, though it had bore a hefty amount once--perhaps enough to inject more surety and skepticism into his voice at one time. But that was then, and it'd since been left to the scavengers long before the boat. From the moment a timespinner had stepped into his life--bits and pieces of his understanding carved away, gouged out.
Stepping off the boat at the start of some journey, he isn't at all sure of anything anymore. The lack of expectation should make a man lighter, one would think, but it feels like the opposite. It feels like a heaviness on his shoulders and in his chest and in every limb.
The daemon looks away from the man, glancing at the floor, to the side, concealing an apprehensive tension in his jaw behind the heavy fall of his hair, but the almost incongruous question draws him back around. It's only then he realizes he's been worrying at the sleeve of one arm and relaxes his hand.
Eaten? He shakes his head. It hadn't crossed his mind, nor the last time he'd stopped to register hunger. In the days after Bedlam, someone--maybe Hubbard, or George--had tried sending around food. Light, lean foods for recovering stomachs. He remembers leaving it where it sat, everything somehow smelling of cinnamon and roses, sweat and blood.
"No. But I could do with a drink or two." That being said... "Do... you smell fresh food?"
To all effect, they're alone in the dining portion of the otherwise uninhabited temple, not even the shadow guardian in sight, but it does seem as though the faint scent of cooking wafts from the direction he presumes the kitchen to be. Which just begs the obvious question: who or what is so confident they'll remain that they'd laid out beds, prepared meals?
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Stepping off the boat at the start of some journey, he isn't at all sure of anything anymore. The lack of expectation should make a man lighter, one would think, but it feels like the opposite. It feels like a heaviness on his shoulders and in his chest and in every limb.
The daemon looks away from the man, glancing at the floor, to the side, concealing an apprehensive tension in his jaw behind the heavy fall of his hair, but the almost incongruous question draws him back around. It's only then he realizes he's been worrying at the sleeve of one arm and relaxes his hand.
Eaten? He shakes his head. It hadn't crossed his mind, nor the last time he'd stopped to register hunger. In the days after Bedlam, someone--maybe Hubbard, or George--had tried sending around food. Light, lean foods for recovering stomachs. He remembers leaving it where it sat, everything somehow smelling of cinnamon and roses, sweat and blood.
"No. But I could do with a drink or two." That being said... "Do... you smell fresh food?"
To all effect, they're alone in the dining portion of the otherwise uninhabited temple, not even the shadow guardian in sight, but it does seem as though the faint scent of cooking wafts from the direction he presumes the kitchen to be. Which just begs the obvious question: who or what is so confident they'll remain that they'd laid out beds, prepared meals?