"And none of them are my d..." He doesn't try to force the word dinh out any further than that, not once his tongue ties itself around the word. He trusts Roland to understand. Roland does get a little smile, though, small and sad, as Alain settles the cigarette back in his mouth and takes a long drag of smoke. "Thank... you, Ro'." There's still that guttural kind of stop where thankee becomes thank, but he's learning to roll with the limitations on his tongue. There are other words he would say, words that have set form, for thanking your dinh or stating acceptance, but he won't try to force them out.

Instead, he stands and smokes for a moment, squeezing Roland's shoulder briefly in thanks. He's quiet for a long time, thinking. There's much to think on here, even beyond the troubles that still plague him with being a dead man walking. What you judge necessary. And isn't that an exquisitely Roland way to put it? Not right, but necessary. And then there's Cuthbert, whose loss grieves Alain somehow more, not less, for being before his arrival, and about whose brief stay here he knows so little. He sighs, staring out over the city, and dwells on those thoughts a while in silence.

When he does speak again, it's with a little lopsided smile, his light tone making it clear that he's done with that heavy topic - for the moment, at least. "These smokes are shit. Might as well smoke dust for all the taste it has."