"Everyone loves to preach about choices. In fact, they love it nearly as much as they love to bleat about sides, and which is the correct one to be on."

He's bored. Floating cities and islands of wonderment are not his place, nor his interest: there is no king to protect and no sister to seek out, love, defend.

Consequently: bored. "Lords of Light, the Seven, those...strange tree-gods the Northerners worship: we play the same roles no matter the name we call our puppetmaster."

Bored, and exasperated. He can see no direct route home, and it is gnawing on his nerves, a slow grind of teeth, seeking to meet through the soft tissue of his throat. "I know mine."

His role has never changed. "Can you say the same? Or will your Lord send along a raven to notify you, help you settle in a bit?"