By sheer coincidence, Palamedes has slowly been making his way towards the man over the past twenty minutes or so. Every few plots he pauses, crouching down to look at the gravestone; sometimes he takes a notebook out of his pocket and writes in it, sometimes he briefly rests his hands on the rock. Sometimes, he just seems to look at it for a moment, and then move on.

Pal has been in Wellstone five months now, and it hasn’t escaped his notice that sometimes the graves change. There’s a pattern to it, he’s sure—if only he can find it.

He doesn’t even notice the newcomer until they’re nearly on top of each other, and when he speaks, Pal looks up sharply from where he’s crouched at a grave nearby and blinks his luminous grey eyes at the man.

“Not precisely how I would put it…but yes. More or less.”