Oh, this is interesting, though! Barcus wouldn't call himself a student of human/elven/gnomish/what-have-you nature, but he is small and easily ignored, and therefore he is observant. Gods know there are powerful people here, just as trapped as everyone else--which must be galling to them--but few with this level of lofty reserve. It's something Percy and Gortash both wear like fine clothing, but like fine clothing, sometimes theirs shows wear and dust and holes in the lining.

Still, more than anyone else thus far, this man reminds him of Enver Gortash, which probably means he's clever. "It's all wrong," he agrees mildly. "They don't know anything about their past, the faction leaders share almost no information, and the native people don't bat an eye no matter how strange the Visitors in their midst appear or behave."

It almost feels hollow. Like set dressing, a play put on for the Visitors' benefit. But he's not prepared to voice that thought aloud to anyone yet, let alone a newcomer.

He smiles, amused by the wordplay. "My unassuming face is called Barcus Wroot," he says. "Though I wouldn't call myself dangerous." He offers an armclasp with a small, stone-gray hand. "I've been here for a few months. The place only gets stranger the longer you stay. You'll have to be the judge of whether it's worth it."

He's committed, but only because of the other Visitors.