When they devolve into silence, Cullen's generally working hard to keep his temper in check. Now is certainly no exception.

He makes himself breathe, deep and even. He recites the first chunk of the Chant in his head. He pictures his frustration calcified into bone, crushed into dust, blown away by the wind.









"I don't think I clarified well enough," he says, after a long moment. "The point is -- we can do whatever we like in that tent, as long as it's very quiet."

There: the beginnings of a smirk.

"Experience suggests that's its own kind of fun."