The old scene stays, playing out, an aged woman packing her short crescent-marked swords up to be taken to market. A weight of retroactive grief is on the memory, of the last time she saw her home and so many of her loved ones alive.

:Good question. I appeared in a cell with your soul-sib there,: Need muses. Here's something about the mind to mind communication that Need uses: a stream of emotion, sensation, thought, imagery comes with each word. More information than is conveyed with a voice and a face even if it's mostly too fast to make much sense of. She's not inclined to outright lie and if she tried no one paying the slightest attention would fall for it, and it's not actually difficult to determine how she feels. Which is not that much, considering. She doesn't like whatever Palamedes is but is keeping in mind that he's not what his closest equivalent in Velgarth would be. :I know a spell for projecting myself into other realities. Usually if I use it it's because I'm called, but she didn't call me.:

She spends quite a lot of time and effort answering calls for help. Need's soul is warped. Mangled, flattened, parts of it missing, altogether in an unnatural configuration. Like knowing plants and how their roots spread, and finding one that's been in a pot for so long that those roots have formed a solid mass completely filling the container. Need is a sword. A tool, a weapon, a symbol and something to hold against danger.

:Why are you here, boy? What can be so important that you've both committed to such a terrible idea?: