"More than that. They seem to believe nothing happens, for weal or woe, but that one of Our Kind is its author. If you are to come here" - and underneath that, the feral thing growls do not come here; this is not a place of honour and the foreign one sings of the serenity that awaits - "then hide your shard."

A long, bone-weary sigh. The optimism he'd felt on the boat ride over seems several lifetimes away, and very stupid in hindsight. "Its strategic importance is such that, I assume, razing the place entirely remains firmly Off The Table?"