The Outsider isn't accustomed to the notion of places he shouldn't be. For so long, all of space has been within his reach, echoed through the Void or glimpsed just across its shimmer. For so long, he's seen into everything and everyone. The notion of privacy is laughable to the Outsider, and the notion of place - of occupying only one infinitesimally small area - seems strange. Isn't it only natural that he should be anywhere, everywhere? (Even if it's stranger in this place, harder to see everything.) Why shouldn't he be here, watching her?

He hadn't spoken her name expecting any particular reaction. Had chosen the full appellation because that's who she is, what she's called, and he'd wanted to feel the sound of it in his throat, let the words filter through his voice. Still, the smirk is singular. Doesn't strike him as the response that most would give. Again, again, she proves herself an interesting young woman.

"Cassandra."

Again he cocks his head at her, and now the strangeness of his eyes - black through-and-through - might be discernible, might be seen as something more than a trick of the light. "Avoid the question as you like, but you can't avoid what follows you. Do you think your past will ever rest? Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, I see the weight of your broken childhood, the way they held you, the years spent cowering beneath their fangs.

"Your life has not been easy."