That gets a weary, weary sigh. "Why is it ever? The wicked don't prey on the mighty, they prey on those who have little enough to begin with. The gods of nightmare who change us and scrape us and burn us and turn us into this -" she gestures to the All of Herself, "- don't got plucking rich men from their beds and besieging the high towers of their fuckin' business empires, they pick off the lowly, the despised, the miserable and the wretched and the weak, those who are already begrudged their place. And, well."

She reaches for the cigar that isn't there again and swears eloquently in English.

"...Sorry. Anyway, the empires of Earth are uh. Not friendly to your people. Haven't been for ages. And that in turn means you're unfortunately represented in the ranks of they who endure the unendurable." She pauses. Something passes over her face, and when she continues it's with sorrow in her voice: "Sorry to say. It ain't fair."