Daud crosses his ankles. The movement is uncomfortable, so he returns them to the ground, looking at her. His arms prickle and tingle from where her feathers touched him, like the limb has fallen asleep. The glitzy gold still tries to enrapture him but Daud is well-used to the attempts of both man and gods to allow himself to be enraptured. Still, he looks at her, gaze measured and heavy in counterpoint to the flighty unease she radiates.
"I used to kill," he replies evenly. "And I used to be a thief. Now, I am..." the words dam up in his throat because he knows that they aren't true. His actions-- Delilah, Emily-- were as much for himself as they were for the others; he has not managed to shake the self-serving instinct of a street child from his bones, even now thirty years on.
"I am trying to be different," is what he settles on.
"And who are you?"