The old man looked up and met the gaze of Drake. Something dark lingered within his eyes; shadows flickering with sharp edges and long slants, casting themselves across his body. Within his eyes were not contempt, nor elation, nor frustration, nor anything. Most terrifyingly, there was only nothing, a vacancy in his cold, dead eyes, unflinching. Whispers slipped through a gritted jaw, sounds passing through the spaces in his clenched teeth and the minor partitions in his lips, groveling and murmurs barely comprehensible. He dug through his damp pant pocket and after foraging for a few seconds pulled forth a pack of cigars, the wrapping around it crumpled and old. When Sawyer took one out, ash fell from it and the tobacco began to pour out onto the table from the break in the smoke. Regardless, he slotted it between his lips, and put a finger in front of it. The index sprouted a flame from its tip, minor, but still unnatural. He leaned back in his chair, and he inhaled the smoke, which seemed to calm him. As it was siphoned into his nostrils it passed once again through his ears in faint smoke and similarly out of his eye sockets. Color was restored to his faith, somewhat; the diseased green sheen lifted. His pupils contracted and something flickered within them, a brightness. Life. "Too much to say," Sawyer barely spoke, keeping the cigar in his mouth, saying so through the opened corner of his lips. There was the low, gravelly quality to it, but it also came out in something of a low whine, as if it pained the man to speak.