Rictor Cassul, normally such a gregarious and social creature, seemed to have retreated into himself tonight. Conversation came harder with people he ordinarily considered his friends, skirting around the subject of mutual sick and dying loved ones—he refused to talk about Aspel, but would occasionally shoot a thoughtful glance over in Chiaro and Paget’s directions. He obsessively checked and re-checked his equipment, pacing the outskirts of their camp.
Until, eventually, the holy knight found something he could do.
Spotting Ceres, he crossed the campsite with gunblade sheathed and resting on his shoulder, a bag of supplies slung over the other. He unceremoniously dumped his kit to the ground and settled down on the log beside the woman; he unrolled a blanket in front of them, as close to the fire as he could manage.
“Evening,” Ric said, trying to sound light.
So far, their trip had been relatively uneventful. They had flown, walked and settled down in order to rest for the night with a projection of arrival the next day. It seemed… Boring at best. However, as it was for Emillion, Ceres would suffer any burden. Then came the unceremonious dumping of gear in front of her, which earned a narrowing of eyes. What this oafish buffoon thought he was about to do was beyond her as the former KingsGuard continued to polish the blade of her weapon passively. Just another burden to bear.
“Right.” Gee, wasn’t he brillant, could state what time of day it was and everything. Hopefully, the bull of a man would bug off soon enough.
Her dour demeanour wasn’t lost on him; it was simply another challenge, another distraction to keep himself busy with until stronger concerns swallowed their group. Heedless of Ceres’ mood, Rictor swiftly disassembled his gunblade, laying its disparate parts on the blanket in front of them, each piece neatly categorised. The supply kit contained oil, swabs, and extra ammunition, and he started tending to the weapon with a surprisingly delicate touch. A meticulous cleaning that would leave it in complete working order for the presumed battle ahead.
“What ammo did you bring?” Rictor asked.
The thought of simply not answering him was honestly her preferred method dealing with this situation. However, alienating one’s teammates during a potentially life and death mission generally was not the best way to go about things. Which she had volunteered, these were her people, even if she wanted to punch some of them in the face, but...
"Onion." The response was clipped, obviously not looking to engage for any longer than needed. "Always works." And it was cheap, easy to blow through clip after clip in a barrage of shots without raking up a fortune in ammo bills.
“Simple,” he said. “That works.” The woman’s terse speech (it was even worse than talking to Zacheus at the start of their friendship) was catching; Rictor found himself seguing into a matching sort of gruffness.
“Wyrmfire for me.” Without warning, the knight tossed her one of the dull red bullets – his favourites, the purchase aided by a noble background – and then resumed his work. A nagging thought had been pestering him, however, as he took in the entirety of their motley group. It was that thought which led to Rictor looking up from his task, working through that twisted knot in his own throat, and trying one last time to break through: “So. Why did you volunteer, Uppsala?”