[He still looks damp and hot about the eyes, but the laugh is better, and it relieves some of the building pressure in her to know she's managed to do something right. So she laughs a quick, dry laugh herself, runs her fingers back through her short shock of hair.]

Maybe you're on to something there. And trust me, the day Harrowhark Nonagesimus decides to raise an army is the day we're all well and truly fucked, so pretending not to know she's capable of it is definitely the best plan if we wanna sleep at night.

[Though at this moment Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House, penumbral lady of Drearburh, is refusing to leave their shoddy rented room because there are too many sights and sounds outside. They're in no immediate danger of her necromantic wrath.

There's a moment when silence falls down around them, broken only by the soft patter of rain on the roof - a strange and alien sound to her, but one that isn't entirely unpleasant - and she's just trying to decide whether it's companionable or needs to be filled when he speaks again. She lets out a low breath, her eyes on him, and there's a bitter twist to her expression which suggests something deeper than sympathy.]

Yeah, just sitting with that kind of shit will really eat you up inside. Zero out of ten, would not recommended. It just gets worse if you get all up in your own head about it. I know I deserve to be run through with my own sword for saying anything so cheesy, but a problem shared is a problem halved, right?

[Not that she has a lot of experience in this regard, but the single other heart to heart she'd ever engaged in had lifted something from she and Harrow both.]

It's over and done now. All you can do is move forward from it.