[Andy's lack of judgment is more than Ortus expects, and much more than he would have hoped for, if he was prone to hoping for much. He does not flinch under her regard, and finds himself in the unusual position of being the one left looking after another has turned away.]

Fear may also keep you from living. A balance must be struck.

[It is an unadorned fact, no more in dispute than that this bar is made of wood, or that his own glass is approaching emptiness. He drains the dregs and pushes it away from himself, which seems to be a signal to the bartender, who begins to fill it once more without a word.]

I am suited to long hours spent alone reading unbearably dusty volumes, longer hours hours yet spent before blank pages, and an interminable amount of time spent pondering meter. In short, I am suited to poetry. Particularly about battles, strange as that may seem.