"My staff is made of strong and sturdy oak, stained a warm honey colour, with a circle of runes around the top. It stands as tall as I am." He was surprised when the one calling himself Night deigned to place a hand upon his shoulder. Eyre stared at the impossible hand, the unsought touch. A smile tugged the corners of his lips up at the thought of how unlikely any of the last few moments were. It was the meeting of a lifetime, especially for one as short as Eyre knew his would be. He was surprised to have lived as long as he had already.

Night's question, in consequence, had Eyre shrugging his shoulders. "What have I to fear, even from a god such as Night, when my life has already lasted longer then anyone ever thought possible? When one lives with death as a constant companion, the ultimate arbiter which none can avoid, so many things aren't frightening anymore." How would the god take it? Or the seeming god. Eyre didn't know what to call the man, the being, standing so near him, and trying to define him was probably a bad idea anyway.