[Clearly she's dealing with the dark and brooding type here, which she supposes she can get behind. She imagines it's easy to go one of two ways when one has spent an unreasonable amount of time locked up against one's will-- aching with loneliness and desperate for human conversation, like her, or stoic and silent, like this guy. But he is talking to her, which is something.]

You'd be surprised. Some places can stay reclusive and neutral for literal centuries, just rotting away by themselves in the dark, sliding ever forward toward complete and utter irrelevance. And honestly, fuck that.

[Been there, done that. Now it's time for something else. Literally anything else, even if the thrum and buzz of conversation in this little dive of a tavern sits oddly against her senses, the kind of human distraction she's never really had to deal with before. Even if she gets so overwhelmed by the sheer crush of life on the streets outside that she finds herself ducking into random shops and buildings just to catch her breath sometimes. She may miss the chilly silence of the Tomb on occasion, but it's a fleeting thing. She doesn't truly ever want to go back to the site of all her girlhood misery. To the big, black secrets and lies and death the Tomb had kept close to itself for so very long.]

But what do you mean, marked? You mean like those signs they gave us? I think we all have those.

[Because again, she ought to have been paying just a touch more attention back there in Thorne.]