[Gods, he does love a good flirt. There's nothing that makes him feel more human and less a wreck. Or more, he thinks, it comes from that Hector's tone remains so light. Oh, ugh. When has he become the more morose one of any pairing? He feels he must be akin to dragging about a whining child.

He closes his eyes, leaning back, and simply focuses on the fingers at his wrist. A twitch of his lips turns into a smile.]

I have been told my company is exemplary. [He peeks an eye open.] And your work is as well.

[Hmm. A name for the fox. A fox, reanimated by a smith of souls. Ah!] Where I come from, the people there -- and a few dwarves -- worship a god called Telawel. Er, I say sometimes, if only because it still comes off a bit cult-y. He's said to be a divine blacksmith, whose followers preach a life of honest work. [He gives him a smile, shifting his leg against Hector's.] He may sound like someone I know.