Eliot's newly-focused eyes go to the man's hand, half-expecting to see a bloom of light at the center of his palm, the genesis of a bit of battle magic. For a second, his heart rate skips upward and adrenaline rushes through his ears; he knows he's in no state to defend himself --

But the hand remains just a hand. No magic. Eliot breathes gently through his nose, forcing himself to get a grip. Wondering how, exactly, to answer the question.

No point in explaining all the details to a stranger, is there? Or even in attempting to make an abundant amount of sense.

"Just trying to get some perspective," he says, lamely, one hand bobbing absent and nervous at his side, a loose fist.