The burden on the Socialite's shoulders was heavy enough to bow him physically as well as mentally. He hunched closer to his notes, the look on his face searching. Perhaps it was for the right words, perhaps it was for the right lie. Whatever the case was, whatever they settled on, they didn't look up at the Maven.

"I am afraid simply talking has failed me many years and will do no good here, though I appreciate the effort. You are kind, my dear, but this is an anniversary of a tragedy, another year holding aloft the weight of the sky as if I were to be dubbed Atlas. Words escape the burden. The only ease now is resolution." The age began to show in his eyes, haunted, even when not looking at the Maven. There were many reasons why they were dubbed the Morbid Socialite. This gaze was but one.