His momentary surprise at her question did not take her aback. For who would expect a young woman to ask such a question? She echoed his grin as he considered his answer, her eyes gleaming with challenge. It was the desire to know that drove her, the passionate balance between truth and lies, silence and speech. Adonai listened to him carefully, as even the choice of wording was important with a man such as Eden. Ah, so he had orchestrated the deaths of others-- but did that truly remove his culpability? She did not let her musing show, her grin fading into a Laodicean smile; too much interest and she might sway his answers, not enough and they might seem unsubstantial or unsatisfactory. Perhaps she had not yet mastered the art of gaining information, of manipulating stories and details from the mouths of others, but she'd gotten close enough to know what not to do.

It was a delicate dance, and one that changed its steps with every partner. She tilted her head as he spoke, ears swiveled towards him, catching and storing each word as if it were sustenance vital to survival. And perhaps, in this world, it was. For whatever reason, Adonai did not believe he would cast the word 'bastard' against her and Pagan, and so she grew curious as to who that might mean. "Quomodo enim aliquis vivere fas est cedere?" (How does one give up the right to live?) She inquired, curiosity in her glittering eyes. She had been given one question, but perhaps he was taken by her desire to know things, and would answer whatever she proposed.

Adonai paused in her stride as Eden did, turning her face towards him, detached and dormant but not disinterested. It was this neutrality, she learned, that encouraged others to speak. There was no indication that his words had any effect over her, and where others might speak more to beg for a reaction of some kind, she supposed her grandfather wasn't that way. Ah, it was the dance. Twirling in intimacy, playing games, whichever one might call it-- it was beautiful, impartial, quiet. There was an air of excitement around her for a moment. Did everyone not deserve some sort of obsession? A purpose, drive? Her mother had lost it somewhere before she was born, as digging in the sand as a pup had uncovered creatures with unseeing eyes and decaying bodies. Treasures that could have only come from one very large and very barren den.

A question was proposed, and the young woman tilted her head once more. "Rumors?" She spoke in common tongue, her voice accentuated by a deep, purring Latin accent. "Nullus, nisi propter finem. Quid habeo?" (No, nothing of the sort. Should I have?) She laughed, the question largely rhetorical as she continued. "Tantum sciat esse Oceanum audiret multa secreta. Sit turbulentus et pondere. Vidi crescunt fluctus noctibus altior summitate et non potui. Quid ea nocte miror? Et audivit arcana concitatus Oceani quae est?" (I only know that the ocean must hear many secrets. It becomes turbulent with the weight of them. Some nights I saw the waves grow so high that I could not see the tops of them. What happened on those nights, I wonder? What secrets had the ocean heard that agitated it so?)