The rotting is no easier to deal with the longer she is here, the more she looks upon their faces. In such dark, damp conditions as these, the decay has set in all the more quickly. She is reminded, for a moment, of the days following the Spire, waking up with a bloodied gash across her head, in finding the bloating, greenish bodies of those who had taught her, who she had studied with, who she had begun to teach.

Herian rests one hand against the wall, but otherwise appears unaffected. Breathe, let it pass, do not unveil that weakness, do not falter.

"Should I bring you another?" Comparison. Contrast. Just an excuse to move, she hardly knows.