"Lordran. Isn't it?" It could be a trick; clearly, he's a sorcerer. But then, it'd be a bit silly to wait this long and then trick her in such a stupid, underhanded way. If he were going to be a bastard, it would have been a moment ago; the tip of her sword wavers, dips, and then vanishes as she re-sheaths her blade with the usual metallic hiss, "Or somewhere very close to Lordran."

She wonders, briefly, if he's simple. But his accent isn't Astoran, and he's an odd sort of Undead to be—

"Wait," Eva crosses the half-dozen meters between them in a few long, urgent strides, only to stop, lean forward... and do nothing. She stares, looking at him minutely, and then reaches to flip up to visor on her helm for a better view. His neck, without hardly a scar, and the face so clear-eyed. It would be impossible to tell for certain, without seeing more of him, but her own dark-eyed squint tells her enough for suspicion, if not certainty, "...Aren't you Undead? You're not, are you?"