"Why can it not be a sign that you've grown comfortable with loneliness? But what does it matter as long as the cat understands?" and to the cat who was now rubbing up against the mint in his hand, "...est petit -ce pas?"

It wasn't that Michel couldn't sympathize with that sentiment, he sympathized in a different way, Michel had no roots and he was a wanderer. Most of his time was spent in a land that was frozen solid so having anything beyond his horse, which the nearest town was generous enough to provide a roof for, was impossible. One could grow to tolerate isolation, not enjoy it, but tolerate it.

"It was meant as a joke...but then again I've had the distinct displeasure of nearly being eaten alive," and the closer the cat moved towards him the more Michel inched his way into a sitting position, all the while still scratching her and muttering praises in Orlesian, "the last time a healer examined me was well over a year ago, but I can assure you I'm quite sound. Miraculously so."