[Being in range of that optimism is like being hit with a breeze, or standing in sunlight, or hearing music playing. There is, if considered, almost a physical aspect to it, but trying to perceive which senses, if any, are involved doesn't go anywhere.]

<Ah. You're a mouth-speaker. Well, I suppose no one can help how they're made.>

[Aliens, Alloran considers, are weird. This one's just Andalite enough to be a bit disquieting with the patterns of bare skin and fur, that bizarre nose, and the balancing pole-like on two legs. He also decides he's not the biggest fan of sound-speech, you've kind of got to dedicate attention to processing the sound in a different way than with handsign or thought-speech. Oh well.

There's at least as much "deer" in Alloran as there is "human". Mobile ears, huge main eyes, some of that same alert lightness.]

<I don't suppose you're a local? Or do we both find ourselves in the position of being, hm, strangers to this place?>