Trapped, in the present tense, but with a precarious sense of uncertainty. Wanda feels it, that subtle pressure that he chases after. Telepathy isn't the best tool to measure moral standings, especially when she promises she won't use it on others but can't actually stop herself from just feeling what others perceive.

She stops, too, and takes two steps towards him.

The writer had pulled away from her touch before, so there is little she can do in terms of sympathetic actions. All Wanda manages is a hesitant reach of her hand for his, halting halfway in the air.

It feels (and sounds) complicated.

Her hand, rather than trying to reach for a part of him, reaches instead for the lamp. She makes it glow brighter away from them, but duller within their circle. Her eyes glance over to where it shines, further up the lack of a path they're following, to a setup of boulders and jagged rocks: a god's shrine.

"In the hopes of not sounding cheap and corny," she offers, glancing back at the man, "and even if things seem unlike it, I'd say that you aren't as much a prisoner here as where — you're trapped in, outside of Abraxas."

Somewhere that is foreboding and oppressive, as she senses it, like the growing darkness around them and the shrill sounds of the wind pushing against the trees and her own magical sphere of influence. It feels distant but close to him, too.

And because honesty is the best policy: "...I can sense things. Not that I'm trying to. It's just — loud, right now." He is loud.