"Thanks. If I had known I was traveling to a different world I would have at least made myself a breakfast." He's borrowin from the Eliot school of thought: try to be flippant about things even if you're a giant mess of 'what the fuck?' inside. It's not the world thing that's jostling him, it's just that this place isn't exactly Fillory.

The inn is nice, though. And so's this guy who's helping him -- what's his name? Shit, he really did just wander in and trust the first person he saw, huh? In his defense, there were people in armor attacking him just for doing stuff with smoke rings. Quentin already feels in over his head, and it's sad how that's become par for the course. Once he takes the tankard of ale in his hands and takes a sip (shit, that's nearly Fillorian), he offers a thin, humourless smile.

"I'm Quentin, by the way. You're...?"