Indeed, this is the concern which grows too in my heart. For well do I know the appearance of wounds inflicted by the arms of men, and none else could cause lacerations so precise as these. I know not, however, who could have cause to murder these our hosts, whether from among our crew or the Nalawi themselves.

[So speaking, he stands once more and turns to Olivia, whose distress is as obvious as the clouds which pass over the sun and steal away its light. His touch upon her arm is light when he ushers her away from the grim display of death. He does not intend to mitigate whatever grief fills her breast, however, for mourning is a ritual demanded by his people: it shows not weakness of the heart, but strength of compassion.]

Need you time to mourn? Then pound your fist upon your breast and tear at your hair, for there will be time enough while I dig for these Nalawi their grave. Perhaps there will be time enough too for the fathers and mothers, the brothers and sisters, the husbands and wives, to learn that their dear ones have been torn away in the storm, and they shall seek the truth of what happened. Then we may at least learn the names of those lost.