[Not long ago, it'd have been more than he'd normally offer unprompted to a stranger, let alone another creature. But Matthew's farewell to him had left marks, though the physical wounds were healing under his clothes. In some blackened, guilt-ridden part of him, he is contrite, but he doubts his crimes against the last witch he'd acquainted can be forgiven.

He'll pay the price for it--and soon. Her final words for him still lodge in his chest like a ball of ice, chilling his blood right down to his core. Deeper still he knows he doesn't have any right to try and dislodge it.

Self-preservation. He's silent until that point when another mirthless half-smile threatens to tilt his lips. However, it's shorter-lived than the last, his earlier laughter burnt out with no spark to reignite it.]

I don't resemble them. They resemble me.

[And yet he gestures along the side of his face, as if contrasting his words with the very reality of his mask.]

To the ancients, daimonoi were intermediaries between man and deity. Now we're tormentors of the innocent and the faithful. In another thousand years, it'll mean something different.

But in most company I call myself Christopher Marlowe and leave the rest to the imagination.

[If the witch doesn't care for labels and silly titles, they'll have to resort to names.]