Follen’s smile fell away, but as Quinn continued to speak his expression didn’t harden, nor did it seem to be particularly contemplative. No, he watched her impassively, like it was a statue of himself sat there across from her. A stone man, listening to the ravings of a frightened child. He hardly blinked, it didn’t even look like he breathed.

Then, when she had finished he got up from his seat and walked around his desk. He walked past her, to the door, and he shut it—though he did not lock it. Many moments he stood there, his back to her and his hand on the doorknob, staring perhaps, or thinking. It was very quiet. Eventually he let out a breath, and turned back around, but he did not return to his desk. Instead, he came to her side and sat down on the arm rest of the other chair, facing her. 

Once again he was quiet for a long time. It was different from before; it wasn’t a waiting-quiet, it wasn’t him, inviting her to take her time and speak when she was ready. She had spoken, and now, he was thinking. He looked at her, not unkindly, not piteously, but pensively. He was trying to recall something that he had not thought about in a very long time, or perhaps that he thought about often, but could never express quite right. 

Eventually he tried anyway. 

“[color=lightblue]Westwel had a population of approximately twenty-three million people, divided between five major cities, and a few hundred larger towns, as well as some villages, some seaside hamlets.[/color]” he said plainly, as though he were reading off a census report. “[color=lightblue]Nineteen million were killed in the fall. Another six hundred thousand died in the immediate aftermath, then some more in the following months. Most of the continent was charred beyond saving, and what was left, or what could be healed, was deemed unworthy of the efforts. Now it sits, a blackened stain in the middle of the Carys Ocean. You can find videos from fishing vessels, and drones, and you can see that it’s like…a skeleton, with all its meat gone. Parts of the cities still stand, whole rows of sky-scrapers only half-collapsed. You can see towns collapsed into massive fissures, and hills made from the blown-apart bodies of the Gray Finger mountains. Most of it’s overgrown now—none of the vegetation looks quite right. It’s all twisted, dark, like it’s already rotted. Bits of modium in everything. Some scientists think it sprouts with the plants, now, though no one dares go to check for themselves.[/color]”

He took off his glasses, sniffed. But it wasn’t to keep himself from crying, in fact, his eyes were totally dry. He cleaned the lenses on his shirt, absently. 

“[color=lightblue]For a long time I wondered why I’d survived. I’m not a particularly religious man, so I could only truly ask myself, and as I’m sure you’re aware by now, our minds are not the most forgiving things when it comes to matters of guilt. I could tell you that eventually I realized how cruel and unfair I was being, and forgave myself for a crime I hadn’t committed—but that’s not what happened.[/color]” He brought the glasses up—his eyes seemed so much dimmer without them—and put them back on. 

“[color=lightblue]I did come to the conclusion that attempting to understand why these things happen is completely and utterly pointless. I was convinced that there was no answer, or at least none that would make sense to a man like me. The Modir do what they do with all the sense and cruelty of a hurricane. It is their nature, devoid of motive or reason.[/color]

“[color=lightblue]If you tell me this swordsman spoke to you, that it told you it was hunting you, Quinnlash, I believe you. But if it’s true, it changes nothing. A victim is not defined by the intent of the assailant. Whether you are struck by lightning, or a bullet, the reality is the same.[/color]”

He leaned forward, met her eye. “[color=lightblue]The Modir attacked you. Why do you believe that is your fault, and not theirs?[/color]”