[ She absolutely is no one in this world despite knowing an excellent psychic (not a word she's thought of), at least that's how she knows it's supposed to be. These strange little social challenges won't break her like Satan hopes, but every count of familiarity here does seem to be met by just one more rug pull.

She knows of the undead, but why would they want to interact? She suspected it was always the 'mystery' of the thing that drew others to séances in London, but in this realm it seems like a point of fact that everyone accepts. Perhaps being aware of the risks make it even more enticing, here. ]

Such talk is worrisome, even here, isn't it?

[ Her eyes follow his only a moment before returning to consider what this means for her. Her brow is furrowed, but not so much to make her look sour. Just a touch of worry. ]

Not from the east, but some dear friends sent word ahead of recent dangers, nearly caught up in their own 'skirmish', as you say. People surely died. ...And so, I dare ask something else of you, good sir.

[ A pause, and she bites her lip. ] I worry that...my world is in fact too small, with too many doors closed, so that I will not be able to offer my dear friends the refuge they require when they reach our shore. [ Another glance towards all the 'necromancers' he was able to afford. ] You are powerful enough to open doors, aren't you? You help the needy. Well, if you will forgive my brashness...my friends are desperately in need.