If I wanted maturity, I'd seek out Jaheira.

[ 'Ha, ha, Jaheira is old'. Never mind that she's a century younger than him. It's about being old in spirit.

He looks away again, watching as a passing couple drop a few coins in the troubadours' hat. They look happy and uncomplicated, arms linked, faces smiling. Ugh, he sort of hates them for it. No one should be allowed to be happy if he isn't happy. ]

I've been denied for two hundred years.

[ Denied everything — blood, freedom, basic kindness. ]

Have you any idea how your maturity feels when it threatens to snatch away the first precious thing I've ever had?