Another piece of information floating lightly in the air, and the Darkling is keenly aware of the others' non-answer. 'That's not what it does' speaks volumes, loud in its cacophony, all too easy to pick up. If not calm him, then what else does it do? Perhaps he clings to it because it's the only thing he has from home. Perhaps he holds it tightly like the Darkling does his kefta: it's armor, if not physical like his, than there's a strong chance it's metaphorical. Perhaps it's far more special than that.

Jeff sings and the Darkling listens, pleasantly surprised. His musical awareness is rudimentary at best, but the sincerity in the bard's voice is unwavering, genuine passion weaving seamlessly into every note. It's impressive, he thinks, though his knowledge comes from fetes and orchestras, far more accustomed to balalaikas than electric guitars.

The lyrics need a little more adjusting, but who's he to judge? By the time the other finishes, the Darkling's second glass of moonshine is completed. He even has the manners to clap, however softly and politely, as if attending the opera.

"You'd be a welcome addition to the Small Palace."