There was definitely a sense of satisfaction in watching Wreath laugh himself into pain. Less satisfying was that it didn't seem to do anything. He barely even seemed to notice he was hurt. In fact, he actually kept on laughing.

Craven was used to being dismissed. He handled that every day. He was rather less used to being laughed at, as one of High Priest Tenebrae's right-hand men. People didn't laugh at him. People didn't laugh at him and expect to get away with it. Wreath was laughing at him.

But Craven handled it, he was pretty sure, with the level of dignity expected of such an important Necromancer. That was, he said nothing, even though his smile grew fixed. If Wreath was truly insane, then he was a very organised and coherent crazy person. Perfectly possible, except that the man had just lost his eyes. No one was coherent after something like that.

Craven was actually also used to being patronised, but he was far less willing to put up with that. "You look," he continued, "dreadful. And it's not all our doing, either. Well, not directly." He stepped closer. "You know you have grey hairs? Where do those come from? Running away?"