Almost always, Loquatius is an effervescent whirlwind of a person. Zerxus has seen him waltz through battles of words and blades and fireballs alike, heard him puncture centuries of tension with a dozen words or less.

He most have heard something, in Laerryn's voice. There's a grim intensity to him now, a focus sharpened into something uncanny, and those gleaming silver eyes only turn more piercing as they take in his friend's expression.

"What's going on?"

Zerxus explains as much he can, walking Quay up to the room, but he can feel the moment it all really hits: seeing Laerryn there, clinging to composure with her fingernails, tender and brittle and so horribly, beautifully stubborn.

"Well, fuck."