"Maybe," Hawa grudgingly admits. It's true. He's an antisocial sulk on the best of days; that he's actually talking to others is rather commendable! (So he thinks.) He frowns, folding his hands together, leaning his chin on the backs of his knuckles.

Really, he has to be knuckled and needled into doing things, stubborn thing that he is. He's kind of determinedly focused on getting out of Baedal, so much so he doesn't try to have fun.

"Go to whatland?" is what he asks.