The sentiment carried across with ease, but Amos couldn't help a small smile at the florid language with which Desmond always expressed himself. It was a side effect of nurture, imposed upon him by the quasi-religious surroundings in which he had been raised: a stark contrast to the grunt and gruff people Amos had grown up with. Many people might - and did - find it frustrating or unnerving, but Amos found it strangely reassuring. Others distanced themselves from the odd monk from Dantooine, but for some reason Amos found him strangely reassuring.

"I understood maybe thirty percent of what you just said," Amos teased with a good-natured grin, carefully attaching his lightsaber to his belt. The new weight felt strange and yet reassuring: he'd worn training 'sabers before, and had carried blasters most of his life, but there was something different about this. Perhaps it was because he'd fashioned the weapon himself; perhaps it was the sentiment behind it; perhaps it was simply a matter of what it represented. Either way, with it fastened to his belt, Amos felt himself stand a little taller.

He watched as Desmond did his usual routine of not sitting and trying not to fidget; restlessness was another common trait between the two of them, though they handled it differently. Restless frustration seemed to fill Desmond with energy, whereas Amos was more inclined towards suffering in slumped silence, and testing to see whether or not the Force granted I wish I was somewhere else requests.

"Come on," he chuckled, crossing the room in a few quick strides to clap Desmond on the shoulder. "I'm famished. Lets go eat."