Perhaps a better man- a better elf- would see that sorrow and hear the weight in her words and react accordingly. Would make noises of comfort or protestations that it could not be so very terrible. But Zevran? Knew this world and knew the fickle fates well enough to know one truth: The greater a world's light may be? So too would be it's darkness and cruelty. Balance was something of a constant. Any world that had so much light and grace as Galadriel in it? Would have it's horrors. Zevran needed little prompting to imagine such things.

He lived among them well enough. Live was cruel and dark and painful with the rare scrap of joy and light that one could grab, and then? You died. The longer you lived the worse the world became, the rarer the joy.

Now it was he that smiled, he that made no attempt at his laughter. It was not bright and it was not kind. If anything the sound was wry and faintly bitter. "Ah, my Lady."

That much was said sincerely. She was a lady and- of those he might call his own? She was far from the least of them. "Such is the way of any world. There are horrors and then there are new horrors. Nothing remains fixed. The only difference between a joyful tale and a tragedy is how long one listens to it- or rather here? How long one survives it. We have our new horror, Bright Lady. But you must admit."

Here a fluid shrug, a flickering, flourished gesture with the knife at the sky beyond. "Calling it The Rift Age does not sound quite so grand. It does not sing, mm? It doesn't dance."