"Sorry," he says with a wince. "For me it's been, um... three months now?" He's not sure if that's shorter or longer than he was expecting. It's all pretty surreal when he thinks about it for more than a moment.

His footing slips and he stumbles slightly, reaching out to catch himself on the wall, only instead of the wall his hand finds a root. He jerks it back as if he's been stung, turning the lighter to their surroundings. The walls are still there, smooth and improbable, but the trees from Greta's dream are still reaching down, coiling into his. There's nothing overtly alarming about that but he feels an uncomfortable twist in his gut anyway, maybe an unpleasant memory that he can't place just now.

"Let's keep moving," he murmurs. He doesn't want to scare her, he doesn't want to tell her how much he can't trust himself here, how dangerous he can be. He keeps moving down and tries to think of a conversation topic that isn't painful variations of so where do you come from.

He can't think of anything (because he's a shit), so he couches it as topically and roundabout as he can. "So, giants," he says over his shoulder. "Is that normal for you?"