Thoughts on Language and the Present

Rusty sits in the corner of his room in Ambervale. From without, he looks inert, as he has shut down for the evening. He has been told that he looks quite disconcerting when not "animated." He has never considered it his fault, though. After all, humans, elves, gnomes, they all looked strange when powered down.
 
"Why do I struggle so much with their dialects?" he wondered. "I can sense sometimes that some of them think me simple. How amusing. Would they sound any more erudite if they were somehow dropped into Breland? Into Thrane? Or," he chuckles to himself, his inert-appearing body loosing a mild, low-pitched grinding sound form deep within his chest, "if they were suddenly in the company of Zilargans?"
 
"Still, I suppose I am getting along well enough. I do wonder what Clangg is up to. He must think I quit the lightning rail line. I supposed I did, at that."
 
"A construct. A robot. I shouldn't be surprised that folk are no more certain of what constitutes 'alive' here than back home. The machinist in particular. Is he truly a philosopher on the matter, or is he mocking me? I suppose the longer I'm herre the more I will come to understand the nuances under their speech. I will humor him as best I can for now. He hasn't been overtly hostile, at any rate. But how to explain to him that his creation is no more alive than my sword? To make him understand that I am no sword, no different than him."
 
His thoughts then turn to home.