Old Arabic, telling him he should be safe at home-- ha, as if that were (or had been) even possible, and Desmond was far from an Infiltrator. He was from from a lot of things, like even thinking to use that second sight in the first place. There's still a lot he has to learn, and right now? Right now, all he wanted was for someone to just sit down, tell him what the hell was going on (or that the story he'd been fed was some kind of joke, maybe) and to just wake the hell up from whatever weird dream this was.

Of course, that wouldn't be happening. Sorry, Altaïr. Desmond's already as much of a prisoner as everyone else.

No going back.

Desmond decided trusting his eyes in the first place wasn't going to help, so he moved to just following the sound of the other Assassin. Listened for his quiet footfalls, the shift of robs, breathing, voice, turned with him anywhere Altaïr may move so that his back was never to him.

"Look, I just got here. I don't know what's going on past whoever these Arcana guys are, what they've told me, and I don't know how I got here." Sounding more than a little irritated, you bet. Can anyone really blame him right now? Give it a few hours and he'd chill, but right now was not the time it'd be happening. "What portal?"

As far as Desmond knew, he'd just... woken up, ready to step out of the Animus for some sleep or a good stretch.