[it's honest. it's honest in a biting, painful way that seems to cut right through his chest in an unexpected way.

he shifts a bit, shuffling a bit closer. he has questions, he has concerns—and there's that weird, innate feeling of wanting to help her that rises in his chest. he doesn't need the call of lavenza's voice to tell him that she's a hanged man who needs this.]

Let's go sit somewhere. [under a nearby tree, or on a boulder. that statement is quick and idle, but—]

I don't know who she is, or how she compares to you or even me.

[but...]

Will you tell me, though? Why you can't.

[it's a question that is muted, concerned—but earnest and sincere all the same. who is she really? beneath all of these veneers—who is magilou?]