[ He sighs. He doesn't have a posh handkerchief in his pocket, thus proving that he is not, in fact, a Watcher. But, yeah, similar vibe.

Dry: ] Someone attempting to tell you that spindles are sharp.

[ He steps forward, weary. ]

I touched one earlier. They seem to carry a compulsion that restricts movement and, um— [ faltering here, because it's strange and has gone kind of sideways for him twice today ] —it's broken by sharing information. Not... secrets, necessarily, I don't think.

[ In the tone of 'here, I'll start': ] My name is Jonathan Sims.