Having offered over his outer robe to his friend when he'd been stranded on platform without anything to wear, he's still in the rest of his layers now, expression grim as he surveys their surroundings. All these skeletons, the strips of clothing, the lack of respect paid to the dead...

He's not here to lay them to rest, but part of him wants to ask if he can ensure they are anyway. Instead, he turns serious eyes toward his friend.

"Explain."

What plan, and to what ends? In this world of people born from fruits of trees and as fruits of prayer, but also out of compulsions and fates and complications of politics and destinies, stolen and granted, because no matter the world, people are people, and power always drowns the addicts with its allure.