Shuffling alongside him, Matthias sloshes through puddles, stubs his boots on cobblestones that have askewed over years and the passage of history, and slumps his shoulders so the rain will roll off of him and, you know, because he is tired and because his arms feel like they have been pumped full of ale. He can feel it, nearly, sloshing around inside of him. And his hands feel sort of hot as well. Hot ale.

"Never been t' there. Starkhaven." Matthias stretches his right hand out in front of him so he can look at his fingers. They do not look particularly ale-y, but then, he hasn't got them held up before a light. Always helps to try to see liquid through light. He looks about for some--torchlight, maybe, or the light of some house that's not closed up shutters just yet. Everything has a kind of haze to it, a little like fog. Has it gone foggy? If it is, he won't be able to see anyways.

Anyways. He drops his hand. "But you're onto it, yeah? 'Cause, 'cause Kirkwall, and like... it grew up, right? Like... a shell, sort of. A snail. That's its history, all the mines and things. That's Darktown, and Lowton, all there on the bottom, so that makes Lowtown, it's its softie bits, the snail's. Or," and Matthias frowns, and rubs a hand over his face, "maybe... well, how do shells grow, d'you reckon? Maybe it's all shell. Softie bits inside. Can we stop a moment?"

He's dragging to a stop on his own. Up to his companion if he walks on without him.