It isn’t the kindest reassurance. It isn’t really a reassurance at all. Dextera hears a familiar voice overlaid with the advice, a chipper echo telling him that all it takes to survive is not to die. He exhales through his nose, vague on whether it’s amusement or frustration that propels the breath.

He smooths his hands over some of the stone, and loose gravel tumbles to the ground. It’s impossible to make sense of any of the architecture, and any words or symbols that might have been carved into it are either worn or meaningless. Still, it’s nice to explore.

“…”

Pulling away a chunk of moss from a structure, he looks, inexplicably, to Emet-Selch.