[ He recalls asking something similar of Silco. Whether that man had felt the weakness inherent in his mortality, for he had spoken of the difficulty in remaking his world -- the restoration of which would be imperfect ( and ultimately, unwanted ). Set, in opposition, was a being that would stretch out into eternity. Time and persistence was woven into the fabric of his existence, and he feared not the undertaking of restoring his world. Only the weakness of his heart. ]

You may be assuming the manner of 'my kind'.

[ He is a man, in shape. In nature, he is unknowable. Obscenely bound to the world that shines, captured in a golden bead that has been woven into his hair. Defensive, protective. He offers his hand, magnanimous despite the offense he has taken; his expression is sour, brow sternly set against being mistaken for commonplace, for anything that anyone has ever experienced before.

Behind him, someone startles and whispers a hurried sigh: Oh dear, it won't do any good to let the newcomers be entangled with him. Accompanied by the companionable: The Red One has mellowed, given how much time he spends bloodying others in approved combat now. Set bares his teeth, reactive to the flow of conversation around them; his barely-tolerable presence a blemish upon a pleasant meeting ground. ]

To less savory places, and more honest ones. Where you may see the make and mettle of the people of this world, instead of its would-be soldiers. And where you can get something real to drink.