[ As Blake works, he would have normally preferred silence for the sake of his concentration, but much like Jayden he's been struggling with the changes following the ritual. Where before he'd only wanted to isolate, now he's eager to be closer to others. He fights that urge, just as he fights the creep of anger, but it leaves him appreciating Jayden's words more than he might have otherwise.

(Why is it that nostalgia hits so hard so near to the end?)

Holding his breath, he says nothing as he hones in on a thorn. Is it going to come out? He picks at it with his fingers, a bloody and ineffective grip. He doesn't want to cut any deeper so he grumbles and tries to work the blade around it as gingerly as possible. ]

It's— not like this where I come from either, no.

[ Blake sits back briefly, and even if he's not sweating, he's wiping his arm at his forehead, spreading around Jayden's blood before leaning back into the task. ]

We've got people— who do terrible shit, but no magic. This is— it's worse.

[ Because it's all the same things here — war, crime, tension, indifference, and so on — but it's got the unpredictable addition of a fantastical aspect. Blake's still not figured out how to reconcile all that. Apparently surgery is part of it. Unsanitary, shaky, unfortunate surgery is one hell of a tactile reminder of how pain is intrinsically tied to vitality. ]