“Hm.” Again. Here Ophion found himself sounding more like the woman—the Reason—he had come than he liked. He cleared his throat before answering, allowing the silence to settle in.
“Ready to fight a mysterious guardian with emotionally fragile volunteers?” He scoffed. “Must be.”
Gillian raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother to argue his opinion. While being in an unfamiliar position of taking orders for once had already proven enough to give her slight pause, the strategic disadvantages of pulling together volunteers in, as the mage proclaimed, emotionally fragile states, had not been lost on her as well. A difficulty perhaps, but hopefully nothing insurmountable.
“An interesting gamble,” she agreed, flicking ashes onto the snow at her feet. “Fortunately, I’m much better with a sword than I am at rummy. I’ll see that we have our results, one way or another.”
The mage arched an eyebrow. “You?” There was no edge in his word, none of his usual skepticism and bite, leaving it flat and deflated, more a statement than a question but for the look in his eyes. The air around him eased his temper into hibernation for the night; this was no time to inflame a makeshift comrade. He exhaled slowly, smoke mingling with his breath.
“I’ll see to that, too.” Must echoed in his thoughts, along with the vision of the tossing and turning ill. He turned his head to face the camp again. “Seems like that’s the word around here. Faram forbid”—his tone switched, almost mocking their faith, their fear—“this mission fail. Loved ones or whatever else.”
Gillian blew smoke from the side of her mouth, holding back a guffaw. With their comrades, and perhaps even Barnard himself, out to valiantly protect whatever they held dear, it certainly seemed the shared sentiment between them all. Come back with results, or presumably not at all.
And as for the samurai's own motivation?
She tossed the stub her cigarette out into the cold, its tiny last embers flickering off into the darkness, consumed. She took a few steps toward camp, her back now to the mage. "Mercenaries don't take quests out of sentimentality," she said, her voice cold-steel and inscrutable, "but we do make sure a job gets done."
A glance was given over her shoulder. "Things get dire, fall behind me. Try to get some rest tonight, Barnard."
And with that, she was gone.
Gillian’s shadow stretched out behind her, drowning him in more darkness, as her figure eclipsed the fire from his sight. The mage flicked his cigarette into the snow and grumbled to himself. Whatever response Ophion intended to say was smothered as each of her footsteps sank into the snow.