She's obviously in distress and he feels bad, but at the same time, Rosinante figures she's going to have to get used to the reality of this place. There are things here that want to kill them, that think nothing much of death and treat it casually, and who do not realize (or do not care) how desperately the rest want to cling to the last fragment of life they have. Negotiation is a good skill to have, and he supports its use where possible, but when it fails he'd rather fight than die.

Wordweaving, he suspects, must be something like negotiation. Mediation. Or just conversation, maybe. The way she speaks is like poetry but it's hard sometimes to make out the exact meanings. Whatever translation occurs here, it must struggle with her language.

"Not sure what you consider souls," he says with a frown. "They don't have lanterns. Green-eyes can speak, they plan, they order the smaller spirits around. Sometimes they communicate by planting visions in our heads, and sometimes those show things that happened before but other times it seems like they just want to make us afraid, or angry. I've never heard of anyone talking to one without it ending quickly and violently."