"Would you believe all the time?" Mac asks, biting his bottom lip in concern as the tent fabric gets cut away. He's particularly short for a Kossith but still a hazard with the horns.

"Sorry," he adds with a sigh, weaving his way around the tent (ducking the entire time) until he can find a good place to sit, crossing his legs to prop the injured one.

"I'm not used to having them. Not all the time, anyways. Used to be a helmet, now it's my head. And I don't ride little birds. They're just called Sparrows. They're vehicles. Like, uhh, self-propelled metal horses?" he ventures with a weakening tone, unsure how to describe things and not sound crazy, most times.

"Would it help to say I'm not from around here?" the horned man adds, gesturing skyward. "I fell out of a hole in the sky...Poof. Ta-daaaa?"