[ His train of thought follows a rough track of shit, shit, shit as he watches what he says register over her expression, aware that the natural consequence of that kind of dubiousness — and then surprise — is further questions, questions he's now compelled to answer. But he schools his own expression into something more neutral (well, dour, frankly) as he looks down at their hands, at the surprisingly gentle brush of her thumb, a more intimate gesture than he's really received in ages. ]

Of a sort. [ His lips purse, then he continues, quietly enough that only someone standing directly next to them could hear, ] I'm— I'm a vampire. Until the tadpole's interference, I could not walk in the sun, lest I be burned to ash. My memories of it were from my brief living years, two centuries ago.

[ There's more he could say. The specific choice of the word captivity seems to beg he say it. But, hang on, there may be a pivot— ]

Are you familiar with vampires? I shouldn't presume.