[Celehar dips his head, perhaps as close to an act of acquiescence as he is capable of when finding politeness at war with his instinctive urge to deny any and all recognition on the part of another. He chews over it a few moments longer, trying to sit past the discomfiture and actually listen to Need.

He clasps his hands together tightly, leaning forward that he might rest elbows on his knees where he sits, breathing through the tension that the strangely conflicting emotions brings to the fore in him.]

It would be folly for me to claim to be the only one with a Calling. Or to think myself the only one who has faced such adversity in following it.

[Does it bring him comfort to know there are others? Celehar can't say. Grief is such a personal thing. But it does not hurt, and that is perhaps the most important measure with which he gauges his existence.]