Faolan shrugs, picking a piece off of his bread to stick it in the broth and soak some of it up, searching for the right response as he does. Knowing that it's pretty obvious that he's stalling. Being difficult. But what does he say? Every reason he can think of mentioning sounds not only like an excuse, but depressing at that. The main reason of course is that it's been a long time since anyone else has bothered or cared, and celebrating by himself hardly holds appeal for him.

"Something like that," he says at last, raising the soaked bread to his mouth, excusing himself from having to explain further -- for the moment at least.