Reynard listens, his own eyes roaming from one meaningless point to the next while he does. Somewhere in the faint background of his thoughts is the discomfort of a man who's walked through the Medieval ages, through darker, more superstitious days. Back then he was keenly aware of the difference between false claims of devil power and the true powers of witchcraft.

But they are all mortal concerns. Mortal worries. Long hidden ones at that.

He focuses on enjoying his drink, leaning back into his seat, one hand on his glass, the other hooked onto his belt. "So. Did he... send you here? Did you run away here? Are you still in love with him?"