"That's it? Don't lie." He doesn't believe her. Any age past twenty something all merged into some nebulous gradient of Old in his head. She was on the latter end of Old, though she could still move around and fight, so that puts her a good couple of steps before the eventual state of every person, which was Corpsehood.

The crude explanation, on the other hand, seems to finally hammer the idea of a bayot in. He blinks a few times in puzzlement. Guts realizes he can't imagine what a baby Lashan would look like. She could have emerged fully formed and seventy-one, riding around on horses with her throaty voice, and that seemed to sit right in his head.

"Huh." Is his immediate response. He finds the peculiar tale rather easy to accept, even if he didn't relate. Lashan had shown him an undeserved amount of kindness, which weighed heavier than whatever it is she had under her clothes. Mercenaries weren't supposed to pry into each other's pasts, anyway.

"Sounds like a rough way to grow up."