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Had he known what she was thinking, or rather feeling, then they could have mourned their losses together. He was an exile in every sense, having been cast out of his natal pack by his own parents - for good reason, though he would not agree - and when Renoir heard the term traveler, his cheerful nature seemed to falter a little. His smile waned for a heartbeat or two, yet he nodded. Oui. Though one day I do 'ope to find... Something, but he could not decide on what. The sentence ended with a small shrug of his shoulders.

Curious of her, though, he finally put a voice to his many other thoughts: You ehm, travel sèlman -- alone? He was sympathetic, and hoped she would not be offended by the question; briefly, a worried expression creased his angular face. I 'ave not been here long - it is safe for ou, yes? If not, he would surely thrust himself into the role of her protector, at least until she met with good fortune.