He regards the creature impassively, now—the itch of irritation, the temptation to veer into sarcasm helping to keep his expression locked down. Being written off as weak, that he'd been figuring on, but he'd hoped it might inspire elaboration.

“Just sounds like superstition to me,” he says. “You wanna see me squirm? Give me the details. You gotta bait a trap, you know that.”