[ Blunt is perfectly fine. He tries to parse further meaning behind his answer. Did that make him as new to this world as himself? Unlikely, given his ease within this space.
At the offer he feels the kneejerk desire to refuse. He sees himself at a kitchen table, the strong scent of coffee mingling unpleasantly with antiseptic. A blonde head of hair.
For two years he tried not to pull at any of these threads. His scattered memories. It was too tiring and he gained nothing from trying to make sense of them (and what did it matter, truly, when the missing silhouette of the Black Tower told him all he needed to know?). He didn't have to lie about his place of origin here, many of these people come from other worlds. But so many of them are from Nayeshi, Earth, and there is a shameful part of him that wishes to pretend to belong. Even if it's not the truth.
The one thing he knows for sure about himself is just that: he's always been a liar. ]
Better not risk it then.
[ He shoves these thoughts away with practiced ease, and gives a nod, though the lightness of his tone seems to have noticeably faded a bit. He unwraps his hand to offer a better look at the wound. From afar it looks like one long cut, but up close it's easy to see that it's two shallow cuts across his calloused palms. The edge of the Gray Space was so sharp here that he didn't even feel it slice across his skin. The wounds bleed only sluggishly now. ]
no subject
At the offer he feels the kneejerk desire to refuse. He sees himself at a kitchen table, the strong scent of coffee mingling unpleasantly with antiseptic. A blonde head of hair.
For two years he tried not to pull at any of these threads. His scattered memories. It was too tiring and he gained nothing from trying to make sense of them (and what did it matter, truly, when the missing silhouette of the Black Tower told him all he needed to know?). He didn't have to lie about his place of origin here, many of these people come from other worlds. But so many of them are from Nayeshi, Earth, and there is a shameful part of him that wishes to pretend to belong. Even if it's not the truth.
The one thing he knows for sure about himself is just that: he's always been a liar. ]
Better not risk it then.
[ He shoves these thoughts away with practiced ease, and gives a nod, though the lightness of his tone seems to have noticeably faded a bit. He unwraps his hand to offer a better look at the wound. From afar it looks like one long cut, but up close it's easy to see that it's two shallow cuts across his calloused palms. The edge of the Gray Space was so sharp here that he didn't even feel it slice across his skin. The wounds bleed only sluggishly now. ]