Blackfoot Forest when night fell she placed hand upon breast; prayed for weeping days of rain

She listens to his explanation with a mild interest, the way one would indulge a small child who still believes in the tooth fairy. It is unfair, she supposes, given how Phocion seems to be willing to accept her verse alongside his, but it is how she is now. But she cannot help herself from probing gently, "evil and good always seemed such reductions to me. If they were real, would the gods not exist as the same flawed, nuanced beings we ourselves are? Though I suppose it is difficult to read metaphor in shades of grey."

The way he says beneath-night's breath chokes her suddenly. She swallows, forcing a small nod. "Perhaps that is the case," Poet says, and busies herself with retrieving a bone shard that has caught her attention suddenly, "although in any case, I admire your ... dedication to your gods, Phocion." Gathering the shard delicately between her teeth, Poet offers a slight smile before moving in the direction of the tunnel without much regard as to whether or not he will follow.