What now thinks Nuada with the dry, brittle sense of resignation stemming from spending innumerable years watching humans hither and dither from the sidelines. Philosophy got old before Socrates drained his poisoned cup and was dead (to Nuada's mind) several centuries before the Museum of Alexandria burned to the ground. That a reanimated corpse would think to deliver quasi-philosophical musings strikes him as simultaneously gauche and something he never would have thought to bear witness to; the latter becomes a saving grace of sorts, as immortality breeds such lackluster dullness and boredom that experiencing anything new is something of a treat.

So. Philosophical ramblings aside, he gives the man the one token of acquiescence he can think to give: the slightest inclination of his chin. "They know me for what I am, which is more than can be said for most of the prisoners."