[ It always takes Regis by surprise, pleasantly, when the heart he doesn't have clenches so violently for another sentient creature's plight. In fear and anxiety, all things are made equal－ no matter what someone or something is made of, they always curl into themselves when they're afraid, try to find shelter when the world offers none.

Regis' brows turn down, somewhat. Sympathy, empathy. His hands also lower with the rest of him, posture hunched, knees bent, folding into a half-kneel. The practiced movement of someone who has done this many times before in the past, but doesn't bear the marks of having been bitten or mauled for his trouble.

Poor thing is not a thing he cares to say; he has also been that poor thing far too many times to count. But he believes in the strength of someone's outreached hand. ]

Then we can try to see if we can't find someplace more familiar to you.

[ One thing at a time. Crouched low, still a safe few feet away from the newcomer, Regis breathes slowly and deliberately. ]

May I ask for your name? And what you are, if that question doesn't ring too gauche. I can assure you that there'll be no judgments made based on the answer to said question－ I simply dislike having to mentally catalogue you as an unknown. Seems rude, somehow.