Her mother. It unearthed memories of thin, boney hands dragging through his hair, a smile that was always pinched at the corners, and the strong smell of cheap perfume. She hadn't said many kind things about him, or anyone for that matter. They had been sitting just like this the last time Fenris ever saw her. And he'd tried to shake that image—his mother's face filled with disappointment, then hardened by resignation—but he couldn't. It was branded into his mind, and maybe that would truly be her only legacy to him.
Fenris shook his head when Rosalind spoke again, blinking away the lingering memory of his mother. "People rarely change." He glanced down at his hands, sending a particularly withering look at the crack in the table. "They'll cling to whatever assurances they can if it means remaining the same." Bitter, much? He had cause to be, though no one here knew about any of that. Thankfully.
Except any trace of his usual sour mood vanished with Rosalind's laugh. Fenris all but whipped his head up to stare at her, and for once, he was so surprised that it actually showed on his face. It made him look a great deal younger. "You ... uh. Really?" She was completely mental. Or drunk? Fenris had a brief, hysterical thought that maybe he should smell her breath just to check, but you didn't ask near-strangers for permission to do that.