He flicks an ear at the sound of his name. He is surprised that she knows it- is that too part of her vocation? Not many do here.
(Or anywhere, he reminds himself, still-- still not numb to the ache of loss)
"Is not sleeping your vocation too?" He is quite serious, but there is the slightest gleam in his eyes that suggests he is playing with her- mocking her, even? Truth be told, 'vocation' is not a word he has ever heard before. But it is not so hard to figure out. His homelands must seem backwards to the citizens of Novus- there were no vocations- you simply did what you could, what you must, to survive and help your people survive. There was no written language, no magic, not even weapons- he only knows how to fight with his body, and his mind. Thankfully, the latter is sharp enough that he hasn't made too much of a fool of himself here. Yet.
He has taken to spending most of his time in the sandstone canyons, and so he does not waver at the ice in her voice. It is a pleasure simply to hear the voice of another. And besides- he's more at ease in ice and snow than here surrounded by walls.
"What is this place?" He takes a step further into the light, it paints him a flickering orange. It would almost seem a cell, but- "These things?" With a sweep of his head he gestures to the scrolls that surround them. They call to him as all mysteries do, begging to be revealed. For all the things he knows, he knows so little.
(1. 2. Wouldn't it be a sight to spill yourself right here and now, paint the walls with your questions. Would they even exist without you, or you without them? 3.)
The questions continue, before she even has a chance to answer them. "What does your name mean?" He stops himself then, another question at the tip of his tongue, which he presses to the back of his teeth. His dark eyes meet her own. A feeling akin to hunger rests below his skin, electrifies the air above him even as he breathes in, and resumes his state of deep calm.
