Licyn barely flicks a glance her way, the stiffness in his form a reaction to the incense, the burning of it in his eyes and nostrils and down his throat; the creeping sense of imbalance, anger and fear and hurt that he never trusts anymore, his own instincts pushed out of equilibrium. All he thinks he might trust, to some degree, is the sense of magic all around them, the roiling clot of it deeper down, rubbing against his skin like a cat's tongue. He hates it, is frightened by it, and that sings loud along with the voices who remind him:

You should have died when they did.

Only that's been so true, for so long, that he simply accepts it. There are few things he can hear that aren't part of what he already believes, no matter how twisted.

Your fear will be your undoing.

But it already has been. It already was.

"More fun with gags," he says, smile a beat late and crooked in a way that looks almost twitchy. They're not yet in the front of this line of begging for access, and he doesn't want to go down there, doesn't want to make it to that opening and the heaviness of magic and imbalance, yet that's exactly what they're meant to do.

Searing terrible plans, every Storming time.

"Have you ever worshiped a god?"