His eyes grow less round as he listens, though that comes from the intensity of his focus. He quiets, even chews the inside of his lip as her angry, accusatory words segue into something more even -- or at least something less combative. He still feels the urge to press his spine back against the lip of the spring, but his urge to bolt fades, waiting on the backburner pending the outcome of this conversation.

At least what she has to say begins to slot the pieces into place for him. Six hundred years and ongoing species conflict is a rationale well enough for a cultural disgust for meat-eaters, he supposes: he tries, for a moment, to imagine how he would feel if he heard of humans casually killing and eating weres. Or dragons, even. It doesn't parse in any sort of comfortable way and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, too much a child of his culture to be that quick on the emotional uptake.

"I don't... I mean..." He stares at her, wary, wondering if defending his world will bring down her ire. "We don't eat sentients on my world, either. We wouldn't farm sentient creatures."