"Ah, pardon." The voice that rose up was soft, faintly surprised, but more so than anything, sweetly awkward and tinted with concern. From nearby, peaking out from a small stack of moss covered rocks and a small crowd of skeletal trees, was the head of Rasalas softly peering at the Nemesis who to them appeared to be in some clear state of distress.

"I didn't mean to interrupt, I can leave but... Are you okay?" It was sensative, disarming, but with a note of tenseness. This was the league, this was their leader, compassion was of little use here and it was certainly in the right of the tom pacing in front of him to rip them apart at a moment's notice for interrupting his time alone in thought. Though in some ways, it seemed they were truly ignorant to the level of danger and touble they might be in. They had the meek warmth and naivety to them of some intern who had walked into the wrong office of some angry higher-up on the first day, like this was all a casual, unlikely accident, but some how, some way, they were intent on trying to help.

For a moment they were silent, as if dumbfounded by the sharpness and the note of agitation in Bermondsey's voice, their amber eyes slightly widened with a sort of doeish deer-in-the-headlights kind of surprise. But their expression softened a bit, a small, concerned frown softly taking its place on his muzzle even as he gave a nod of acknowleged to the Nemesis' claim that he was okay. It was more than evident that Rasalas didn't believe him, but he didn't push; he already knew nothing good would come of that.

So instead, he took more attention, or at least more overt attention, to the tom's next response. "Familiarizing myself, I guess." He admitted, his words light on the air and slightly bashful in their tone, clearly meant to be as inoffensive as possible. "I'm trying get acquainted with different places, and if I'm being honest, this is a very pretty place for coming to clear your head." He said, and there was a sympathetic note to his voice, a sort of passive implication that he knew it was the very thing the other tom was doing, though he didn't dare say it. "On top of that I've already hunted a fair amount for the day. Not that I couldn't do more of course, but there's really only so much hunting I think one can do." Rasalas added more as a quick aside, with a pitiful type of humor, the kind that was always said in some attempt to lighten a mood they knew couldn't be lightened, but it was there to negate some tension anyways. Of course they figured it would do no good, but it was there to make the air a bit less tense, a bit less dreary.

"Not very." Rasalas admitted, like it was almost something awkward, something slightly shameful. If there was one thing that had surprised Rasalas the most when he had joined the league, it was just how far away some cats actually were from, how far they had actually traveled to end up here. He would have loved to have lied and said he had some glow-y past, some odd, exotic heritage from some distant, far off land -- but he didn't, and he didn't want to play make-believe every time someone questioned what interesting culture and history whatever made-up place of his choosing had. Besides, in some ways he was very proud of where he had come from, even if now that pride was mixed with a gnawing bitterness, even if now they knew it would come with something akin to a embaressment if he ever were to bring it up now. League culture and -- though he would never dare say it in comprison for how condescending it would sound to any Primal Instinct cat who overheard it -- clan culture was funny like that. They made things that anywhere else would be a point of pride and authority sound pathetic and sniveling compared to their own system; it was something he still hadn't gotten over, and though he had spent so little time here, too little to say it with the sense of conviction he felt, he doubted he ever truly would.

But that feeling, that cocktail of emotions over his past, faded at the Nemesis' comment about the waterfall and the rest of the marshes, and a warmer, curious expression alighted on his face. He took that, with a fair note of hesitance, as a bit of an invitation; if not to actually go there together, at the very least that this small talk meant that the prior distance he had kept for both respect to the other tom and his own safety was not as needed. And so, carefully, gently, he walked out from where he was half hidden behind the rocks and trees, closing a bit of the distance between him and Bermondsey, though still staying back enough of a respectful degree that it was clear they were trying their best to give him a polite amount of space. "No, I haven't yet. I've heard of it, but I haven't gotten a chance to really venture that far. I keep meaning to, but then my paws drag me off somewhere else for the day and I end of never getting around to it. There's a lot to explore." He said it with a small chuckle, but there was something reverential to his tone. Because it was true, and in some ways it was amazing; there was just so much land. So much to explore. Once more it was such a "clan" thing to have so much land, so much territory, so much area that it was doubtful in his mind that they ever quite needed all of it, but it was impressive nevertheless. And he held a respect for it; it was a such a flagrant display of power that it seemed the clans hardly thought about, and that complete nonchalantness of it, that it was natural that they should have so much and use it as they pleased, made him resepct it even more.

As Bermondsey started to walk, Rasalas followed, quickening his step to make up for distance until he was nearly side by side with the Nemesis, only pulling back enough that it was clear that the other tom was taking the lead, flashing a quick, warm smile, as if a tacit thank you for what had been a tacit invite. But as the tom began to speak of the forest, the legends, Rasalas' smile faded. He gave a small shake of his head as a gentle no, but he didn't dare interrupt; he let the Nemesis continue, a sort of reverential demeanor taking the place where his bashful cordiality had existed a moment ago. It was always interesting, hearing cats speak the legends of their homelands; everyone had them, everyone had a tale of some strange creature that shuffled through the back-streets of the city, or some odd, paranormal string of incidents that happened at some location in a small country town. It didn't really matter if Rasalas believed it or not — and really, it was hard to tell if he did, he nodded along softly, seemed to listen intently, but nothing bar the fact that he was taking the retelling very seriously gave way to if he truly thought it held much more merit than just local lore and myth — he probably would have done the same thing no matter what. There was something very intimate about the sort of tales spun till the point they became part of the world around them, till they became part of the people who lived where the mythology was born. Those who lived in the area there might believe it, or they might laugh at till they turned red in the face that others think such nonsense things; but it was still intimate, still personal. The same people who laughed at their local legends would probably still have been devastated if all the tales ceased the next day and they had nothing to laugh about anymore — it would be a loss of heritage, of something that made the mundanity of common life cease to be as mundane. And Rasalas knew perhaps better than most to treat a local legend with the respect it deserved; even nonsense deserved reverence when it was as as much folk-tale as it was a point of culture.

And then Bermondsey asked his next question, and the air of reverence seemed to fade from the hunter, a small, near imperceptible smile lifted up where his frown had been a moment prior, and some slight amusement — or at least, something akin to it — seemed to gleam in his eyes. "That's quite a question." He said with an airy, soft laugh, in that sort of handwaving, almost embarrassed sort of way, as if Bermondsey had asked him something very personal. His gaze softly broke away from the Nemesis and fell on the world before them, as if he was looking for answers in the ground, the trees, in the marshes themselves; moving his head from side to side less so in thought and more so as if he was trying to find the words — though a few second later his smile widened just a tiny bit, and he continued on again.

"Hm. Well, I suppose I'm slightly skeptical. Not really that it exists, but whenever someone says that it exist. Some people are a little too eager to cry "Magic!" or "Luck!" or "Divine intervention!" for every little good or unlikely thing that happens." He said with a quick chuckle, but then his gaze turned back to Bersmondey, an odd duality of gentleness and intensity in his eyes. "But yes. I guess I do believe in magic. I've seen some strange things in my life, I'm inclined to think that it does exist... And you?" He asked, leaning in ever so slightly as he posed the question. "What do you think?"