Mulling over it, the boy scratches his head, fingers idly running through the pitch black tufts superficially similar to bear's fur. In texture, anyway.

"Dunno. The mercenary who raised me didn't really talk about that."

Speaking so openly and freely as they were didn't happen often either. It was the first time he'd mentioned Gambino to someone else, even indirectly. He didn't seem to mind cracking open that door a little, as long as the old witch didn't push any more than he wanted to.

He takes the last drops of airag in his bowl, simply because it doesn't make sense to leave the bottle unfinished.

"Whatever she guessed, it's probably right." he concedes easily. Names never held special significance to him like it did to the Plains clans, apparently. Some part of him always wonders about the curse of his birth that seemed to haunt him in childhood -
simple hearsay, he'd later decided. Soldiers' superstitions. It was an uncanny coincidence, all the same.