"Helllloooo," Issac answered back without a second thought to it. Even if the walls spoke or a passing ghost, or it had been someone's thought instead of spoken words, he would have answered in the same manner. For a little bit of time he had gotten better at distinguishing between thoughts and words, but with his torture at the hands of the Templars and loss of his father-like figure, Issac returned to his rather typical state of thoughts and speech being the same.
Peeking over the side of the large dripping root he cuddled himself in, Issac's green mischevious eyes glistened in the summer evening light. A grin pulled in a lopsided Cheshire manner as he pulled himself further out to see the face painter from the Cirque. "There's no one here to make you look crazy, puppers. And even when there is I might doubt that they would think you crazy if not sensitive to something more spiritual than they are."
Leaning his long torso over the edge backwards, he stretched in a lazy cat manner and let himself drip over to mimic the roots he sat upon. His dark open knit sleeveless shirt falling partially over his face and mess of dark locks as tangled as the roots themselves. "I'm becoming one with the Stranglers."