Bigby snorts at that comment, because home is a memory that he clings to but knows is long gone. "Sure," he agrees, amicable enough for him.

Once she uses the word witch, he shows a tiny hint of surprise, eyebrows up. "You're a witch, huh? Known a few witches in my time. Few other magic users." Her nervousness smells sour, rancid, off meat in weak sunlight. He's used to it. He makes most things nervous.

"Not in the way you mean. Fable stories tend to be pretty gruesome to most- mortal like things." He isn't sure what to call her. She's not a mundane. She's not mortal. But that's why she's cooler with it than many. "You not being a mundane mortal would explain why he isn't off putting in that sense. I find him off putting, but that's just because he's an asshole who tries to tear me apart on occasion."

The choice of words is deliberate.