[ His yellow eyes lingered on the man before him, searching out the subtleties of his expression. Where his eyes move to, when they drop, how his hands move or his fingers flex.

Witnessing. It sounded like a euphemism. He wondered, quietly, what the folk who possessed these powers felt about their gift. Wondered how often they felt like voyeurs into the lives and feelings of others.

He ate another bite, this one slower; and even the pleasantly rich, cloudy softness of pierogi couldn't warm the cold that felt seeped into his core. ]

My condolences, about... about your family. I'm glad there was something like closure, waiting for you.

[ But he blinked up, surprised by the question. ]

Of course it does,

[ He said it slowly, as if to ask, there are worlds that don't? and then set his fork down, leaning back a little. ]

My daughter— adopted, because of—

[ He gestured at himself, mouth twisting— ]

Her grandmother was elven. And like her, most sorceresses are known to have... to likely have a touch of elven bloodline. I've known plenty of elves, and goblins. A few are even... very good friends. Dwarves, halflings, trolls, werewolves, vampires. Stranger things, sometimes. There's a lot of tension between different kinds of people, where I'm from. Race-wars, witch-hunts. But...

Nobody can choose the body they have, where they come from. Feels stupid to judge anyone by metrics like that. Reductive.