And Foulques could feel the subtle change in Chell's mood as he mulled it over at first -- just a small hint of fond amusement. It was hardly judgmental... he didn't quite reply to him, but for what felt like a subtle confirmation: yes, he was here; they were here; he saw him. Felt him? He'd been right: words so often were inadequate, and this was bypassing all of that. A quiet yes, at any rate. Perhaps of interest for the lancer for later, would be the complete lack of objection about that latter comparison -- but also what seemed to be a slightly different understanding of it. What it was, though, exactly, he might have to ask later.
The rush of ideas about plants seemed to surprise Chell a bit, but he quickly fell into trying to focus as it was presented to him. He'd been expecting perhaps one or two, or maybe even three or four -- but this was something else. He was impressed, though -- it was new, it was interesting! -- and there was so much of it!
By the time Foulques had paused, he might be able to note something else... that for all that Chell maintained he'd been of a people not much unlike most others, there was something else present, some sort of... other...? A discipline, a practice, a pattern that felt not quite like what he might be used to thinking of as, well, what thought patterns and memory were ordinarily like, at least for him. This was something methodical, something organized... something reflexive... alien, almost? The echo of the ents Chell was so used to, enough so that he was falling into their patterns to keep up, grabbing hold of what he could of each of those ideas presented to him, trying to categorize and sort them--
And there was something else, some idle, distracted part of Chell's attention that was rather plainly -- in deliberately obvious sight, it seemed, struggling to call up a memory, but needing help with it: something faded and secondhand, mostly-forgotten, a memory so old it seemed to come from many lifetimes previous... how old was he? Or perhaps, how old were some of the notions, like this one, that he was carrying? ...of somewhat-similar produce from people he could barely remember. This one was something like small nuts at the end of stalks of grass, which was then crushed...? No, that wasn't quite right, but some part of a thread of what he'd just been shown was tugging at it. Perhaps it was that last one, the notion of being ground fine and made into something softer, the bread... had it been bread? Or a cooked cereal, perhaps...? He wasn't sure; if he'd ever known, it was so long ago....
no subject
The rush of ideas about plants seemed to surprise Chell a bit, but he quickly fell into trying to focus as it was presented to him. He'd been expecting perhaps one or two, or maybe even three or four -- but this was something else. He was impressed, though -- it was new, it was interesting! -- and there was so much of it!
By the time Foulques had paused, he might be able to note something else... that for all that Chell maintained he'd been of a people not much unlike most others, there was something else present, some sort of... other...? A discipline, a practice, a pattern that felt not quite like what he might be used to thinking of as, well, what thought patterns and memory were ordinarily like, at least for him. This was something methodical, something organized... something reflexive... alien, almost? The echo of the ents Chell was so used to, enough so that he was falling into their patterns to keep up, grabbing hold of what he could of each of those ideas presented to him, trying to categorize and sort them--
And there was something else, some idle, distracted part of Chell's attention that was rather plainly -- in deliberately obvious sight, it seemed, struggling to call up a memory, but needing help with it: something faded and secondhand, mostly-forgotten, a memory so old it seemed to come from many lifetimes previous... how old was he? Or perhaps, how old were some of the notions, like this one, that he was carrying? ...of somewhat-similar produce from people he could barely remember. This one was something like small nuts at the end of stalks of grass, which was then crushed...? No, that wasn't quite right, but some part of a thread of what he'd just been shown was tugging at it. Perhaps it was that last one, the notion of being ground fine and made into something softer, the bread... had it been bread? Or a cooked cereal, perhaps...? He wasn't sure; if he'd ever known, it was so long ago....