It seems as though it should feel more strange that 'frequently' in his case is a trivial amount of time. How can he verify how frequently his head has been hurting him when he feels as though the yawning blankness of a life lived before the nautiloid is inaccessible to him? He knows it happened, but it could as well be somebody else's life for how connected to it he feels. For all he knows, he could be prone to headaches and has been since he was small.

The offer of a hand cuts through that particular tangle of thoughts, eyes dropping and focus fixing on the physical urge to meet that offer. Firm but not forceful, the thick meat of his forearm bumps up alongside Zevlor's as he clasps the tiefling's arm. Eyes flick up to meet that radiant gaze. He feels--

"Better?" No, not better. Not exactly. There's relief, but it's more than that. The contact leaves his fingers gripping in a way that suggests pressure. Pressure that feels good against his fingertips.

"The headaches come and go," he finally says not loosening his grip as he speaks but instead his fingers squeeze testingly, as if inspecting the integrity of the tiefling's arm by touch alone. "Sometimes they are... debilitating enough that I must remove myself from my current situation. Other times they pass as though a fleeting visitor. I... don't think my friends know what to make of it. I don't know what to make of it."