Everyone's a hard person to talk to, when you spend most of your time in the backwoods of--a world that is mostly backwoods, now. This one though, he's especially nonsensical. A moment's anxiety shifts his gaze around them, cataloging shadows and dust motes. Nothing immediately with them, and the air smells clean enough.

He parses just enough on the second try to see where nonsense bleeds into an answer. "So, yes," he decides, aiming his squint at the welt. Owen rests a hand on the head of an ax, sitting just above his hip. Guns don't grow on the trees here; it's a bit like turning over certain items to enter a zone.

"What do you mean, toxic?"