I wonder what mechanism determines between information and thought. Your sky example is straightforward enough, but what if I know I like -- or dislike -- purple skies? Do you get that information? Or only if it's because, say, purple skies are harbingers of particular meteorological events, thus I dislike them, so you understand (a) what they represent and (b) that I rationally avoid them? [ Personally, it's relieving that even with touch he wouldn't be an entire open book. ] And what if I know something viscerally but not cognitively, like the order I prefer to put my boots on, for instance?

Not the same circumstances, but I relate to feeling at once dulled and more able to be seen for myself. When I first ran away, I changed my name and obscured my connections and titles. It was hard; I hadn't realized how much privilege those had afforded me, but it was affirming as well; people engaged me for me, not for my connections. I don't think I'd ever trade that back.

[ He notices David's reaction to his touch, though likely not the extent of it. After hearing about his experiences, Balthier had wondered if David was touch adverse, but it seems very much the opposite. He can understand that; to not have been able to touch sounds deeply isolating. ]

Always a good storytelling move to leave a hook for later. [ He grins. ] So with all that experience and all the choice in the world, what still excites you? What makes you feel the most David?