[ He cracks a smile. This one, at least, can be called that: wry and ancient, but there's humor in it. The air between them is heavy and still. He splays his fingers like ta-da. ]

Be not afraid.

[ He sits back, then. He sets his hand on his glass and traces patterns in the condensation. He pretends not to see the look in her eye. ]

Of course, it was a different playing field, back home... the pantheon's a little more crowded, here. I'm not even playing second fiddle, I'm playing, what, fourteenth? Sorry for the lack of lightning.