His neck flops back to follow the Gallows: Half-blasted.

"Shit, I'm sorry," A common refrain across the last month. Even the ravens'll learn it. "Hard to lose a thing, when 's got a piece of you in it like that."

Does Broward have anything still to give? Didn't have much to begin with, not much wasn't shared. That's good, better - he believes that- but the candles on altars, the skeleton in its fine shroud. Her uncle's runes. Doesn't everyone want something, some memory of them left behind?

(Flames, his head hurts.)

"But I'd be grateful. Be an honour to learn from a real artist."

Something to bond over, or whatever.