He has to laugh at Sarkan's pessimistic assessment of things, a nearly helpless sound without an ounce of malice in it. It doesn't last long; the backlash headache sees to that, and he breathes out sharply as the pain flares up. Maybe the spell he's got for concussions would help... Though before he can do that he owes Sarkan an explanation for his mirth; the wizard's prickly enough as it is without Myr's offending him on top of it.

"'Almosts' pave the way to success, messere--at least in my experience," he says. "We've learned one way not to do it--and that our magic can interact at all, which I wasn't sure it would. So that's something."

Pausing, he covers his face with a hand and mutters his way through the words of one of his few healing spells--cringes a little when it completes and draws on the remaining dregs of his mana--and heaves a relieved sigh as some of the pain ebbs. Not the total analgesia he'd been hoping for but better than nothing at all. "--Glad you won't be needing my glyphs, though. You're not otherwise hurt, are you?" There's an earnest concern in his voice; spell failure's a nasty thing.

"That--yes, that would be wise. I'd advise it, though from what I've heard it may be too late to avoid rifters being named demons. You did all emerge from the Fade, after all." He's almost apologetic about that. "Which reminds me--d'you run into them in your dreams now that you're here? Demons, that is?"