Yseult's sketch barely merits the name, arcs and lines roughly mapping the space with words overlain rather than any attempts to capture the details. She hands it over easily. (If Sennara finds an excuse to glance she'll find many of the pages are in some sort of shorthand.)

Arms crossed, she squints up at that crystal, the lyrium glow harsh after so many hours in darkness. A gesture upwards at it matches the tenor of her shrug, ever so slightly dry. "As you'd expect. What do you think it is?"