The two of them standing away from the fray like this has drawn a few looks, curious more than anything too judgemental. Perhaps it is Zevlor's reputation among his people that keep anybody bounding up insisting they celebrate. He isn't miserable, but associating the feeling of wanting to celebrate and the inky darkness that resides in corners of him he can't yet see feels off. Wrong.

He wouldn't dream of halting anybody else's fun, but he's relieved that adding distance to the party is helping him loosen some of the tension that's strung tight at his core. It's almost got his stomach in knots.

"I may be ill," he says, guessing in a way that has as much chance of being correct as Zevlor's suggestion. Either of these things are possibilities, and though being a soldier fighting for a cause sounds more noble, part of him hopes it isn't the answer. Though no sooner has he mentally favoured an explanation as flashes of viscera cloud his vision.

Another moment's pause as he brings a hand to his head, frowning deeply as he presses fingers to his forehead as if he's trying bore them into his own brain.

"...or-- yes. Or a soldier."