She heeds him enough to wait out his words, to listen with silent and strange and half-nodded intent.

When she sits at his side, her hands coil obediently in her lap, as if she were a nun or a sorcery disciple expecting the whip of discipline.

"That... is their confinement territory. Of course, you've heard, everyone's heard, Taravast is... forgiven of the presence of the waking dead." She laughs, embittered. "And it is true. For the greatest, brightest part. We are not overcome." Click of her tongue, then, "When they do turn up, they require a home. And isolation."