Lazard’s thick Gallente-French accent cascades across the room, words tumbling haphazardly yet always landing precisely where they’ll have the greatest effect. His wry smirk makes you check your surroundings to see what it is that he’s noticed but you haven’t, what he knows that you don’t.

“Ah, but we are immortals mon frer! We have removed ourselves from the natural order, and now must become its stewards.”

He pauses as the other corner of his mouth rises into a smile.

“The purpose of a life is to leave this universe a greater place than when we found it. For those of us who will never leave? Well… we’ll follow that moving goalpost wherever it goes. Something interesting is bound to turn up along the way. Now come, we have work to do.”