Well, he certainly eats something. The stories of the gruesome shriveled up corpses might be a wild exaggeration, but usually with tall tales there's a grain of truth hidden in there somewhere. No matter the reason, he's not going to say a damn thing anyway.

Half of his face is still covered, the smoke still lingering like he's trying to avoid a full reveal. Like he knows what might happen if he affirms that underneath the unfamiliar and overly edgy exterior, that he's still the same man. That it might change things. He has to keep telling himself not to forget.

"Good thing I wasn't aiming to meet it, then."

He bristles a little. The skin stretched out over his cheekbones suddenly disintegrate, like his skin was made of old clay.