The length of time it took Raine to answer already told Anton that the answer was personal. He let her decide whether or not she wanted to answer at all, using the time to finish his stew.

"And you seek to reclaim the truth for your world," Anton said. "An admirable goal. I wish you luck." Anton had been able to detach himself from mortal affairs fairly early on, but as a sorcerer who didn't associate much with other sorcerers it had still been impossible to miss the ways in which the English stole Ireland's history. Gods knew Larrikin had rambled on about it often enough--Anton distinctly recalled helping him escape from Guards, on more than one occasion, in search of some manuscript from the past regarding Ireland's oldest gods.

The Faceless Ones didn't count. Not that Larrikin had denied their existence, quite--but he'd complained mightily about them 'appropriating' the world from Lugh and Aengus and the rest. Then again, Larrikin had also just liked complaining.

Ryder rubbed his head against Anton's hand, and Anton automatically moved to stroke him behind his eyes. The turtle made an approving sound and asked, "Why are you both suddenly sad?"