"On that matter, we would get along just fine." Another dry smile. If he couldn't find any humor or solace in the situation he would have been driven mad a long time ago.

"You do seem the type," he agrees, more gently. Her questions bring a wistful touch to his expression. Nostalgic for days passed.

"I can tell you that strange events started slowly. Little things, at first. Odd creatures were seen the forest. Another time a strange mist rolled in for three weeks. An uncanny song could be heard at the shoreline. Your belongings not exactly where you put them the evening before. Things of that nature." As he speaks, Degas's voice is calm and steady, as if he might be rattling off the weather report from the newspaper. "But they became more and more frequent, and some a great deal more frightening. Many began to leave the isle, most being drawn in by work, but after a time...that became nigh impossible. No one has managed it in these last five years."

A sigh rattles out of him, before that former smile twists at his lips again. "Pumpkin Hollow before was quite the bustling little burg. I was drawn here some decades ago with the promise of good work and a thriving community. And it was." He opens his arms out wide, gesturing to the town beyond the Temple. "This square would be packed at the end of each work day, alive with the chatter of her townsfolk. Merchants hawking their wares and families rounding up their children for supper. The taverns full and their smokestacks belching the delicious scent of their wares."

Once again he looks to Nieve, bringing his hands clasped together as if in prayer. "A far cry from turnips, I assure you."