Oh. Well. This isn't an angle Lyubov was expecting, and she has to fight a little to keep her face mostly neutral; as always, it doesn't quite work. She shudders, too.

"I'm sorry," she says, sincerely; her voice cracks a little. She doesn't think Erin's talking about undeath, per se, but she has some idea of what Erin might mean.

"Thou wert removed from the sphere of mortal life, and placed in a sphere much stranger, and much more hostile to the soul, nu?" she continues. "And like, such things are beyond me to fix, but I don't think thou came'st to me to be fixed. Thou sold'st thine eyes of thine own free will, so thou understands the value one can find in ... nu, shall we put it as being broken? With like, the understanding that I see myself as broken and none the worse for it." She taps her walking stick on the ground for emphasis.

She pauses again, feeling sheepish. Erin's strange, strange even by her metrics, in the opposite direction from many here. There's so many questions she wants to ask. But she can't do that. For one thing, it'd be rude.