Dyssia sits next to her and takes her hand slowly, as if moving too fast will spook the universe.

"Precious little, at times," she admits, and stares.

It's like standing next to a statue, you know? She's seen that face [i]on[/i] statues, read stories of her exploits, had spacers talk about her in low whispers, and she's [i]here,[/i] in [i]front of her,[/i] and she wants [i]her[/i] to tell her of outside?

Where did the words go? Normally they're so easy, you know? Her mouth is burbling brook, full of commentary on what's happening and her thoughts and side thoughts and those little thoughts that aren't relevant to the situation but would fit neatly in a parenthetical aside, and now her mouth is failing her. It's a desert, both of words and saliva. 

She swallows, or at least tries to.

"The Azure skies are…" 

She sighs, and gestures to the walls, alight with red. 

Which… does not convey the skies outside. 

… Is she allowed to go outside the tent? Would she want to? Would they even be visible through the haze of fire and smoke and screams?

Wait, shit, she's thinking about--

"Everywhere," she finishes hurriedly. "Peace and beauty as far as the eye can see, relative to here. Servitor and Azura alike are free to live according to the demands of their civilization, if they are able. Entire planets, systems, space station, all living in harmony and pulling together in service of painting the skies blue.

"It's just that… People like you and I do not often get to experience it. If we were content to serve the Azure Skies, we would not be Publica, would not be knights. Would not follow in the wake of problems, and leave problems in our wake."

Is it her, or is her mouth suddenly even drier? Like, if you took a desert and fed it into a continent-sized desiccator, you might approach a hint of a fraction of how her mouth feels.