Most people have some amount of trouble trusting bards. It's the nature of their business--and, perhaps more accurately, the probability that their business actually runs much more than coincidentally parallel with the even less reputable business half of them seem to be born from originally. Cynric has never pretended to be entirely devoid of lies or that every single thought that pops off his lips is the complete and utter truth.

That said, he does have a terribly earnest laugh. It's much brighter and more youthful than the air which usually clings around him when he isn't lit up in song. It fits well in among the roar which ends the song, like the fading away of whatever muse grips a musician in belting out bar tunes.

His attention stays flitting for a moment even after the song's ended, the way a bird whose song ends takes sharp note of the impression the tune has produced in the woods surrounding. It's only when Hannibal properly starts speaking again that his attention finally comes to rest on the older man again. It's fairly obvious that the second language washes over him with only the faintest sort of actual understanding, but that hardly matters.

The glance, after all, is fully understood.

"I wouldn't say I really speak it at all." Certainly not with the obvious fluency his fingers speak with his lute. They twist closer again now, hugging the instrument closer to his chest. "Or that I ever wasn't playing."