Cor gives all his savings to a project that's trying to eat away the distance to the Moon, and he gathers supplies and tries something else.
A young human man in nothing but a pair of shorts, painted all over in broad patterns with still-wet blood and fine ash, appears on his knees in the middle of an unreasonably pretty city and falls unconscious.
After a little while there is a knock.
Local! "Curufinwë Atarinke," he says, gesturing at himself.
"Talk? I talk? The people who picked me up talk?"
"You talk?" He points. "You? I? I'm not qualified to evaluate that one."
"Uh huh. You talk, I talk, random passersby talk. You talk, I generate you a little list of vocab?"
He can take notes! In a swoopy sort of alphabet. "Wrote?"