She listens, imagining the scenario in the rising desperation. He tells it well, layering each troubling detail one after the other, and Shepard can't help but see the parallels to her own fight. For every undead creature of ice and snow, she can easily envision a reaper husk, lurching and wide-eyed, unstoppable unless you shred them utterly. They don't eat or sleep, convert your own people to bolster their numbers while your own meager supply only dwindles. Yeah. Yeah, she's familiar with the scene.

"Sounds like we fight similar enemies," Shepard says, in echo of that dire conclusion, "But if the rest of the kingdoms don't want to help where it's needed, they'll all go down too, right?"

It's only an educated guess, of course, but she's pretty good at those.

"Hundred to one odds, though? I've beaten worse. You will too."