Considering the amount of ammo she went through in any given fight, it had to work. Even just a couple barrage attacks could unload one to two clips of ammo. Half, if not a full, box of ammo per fight was no small chunk of change. Especially considering her work out with the Rangers could often call for distance combat. At his mention of Wyrmfire, she did her best not to make a sound. She'd seen the ammo around before on a rare occasion - it seemed terribly hard to find - and the rather hefty price tag associated with it - thousands of Gil per box - had kept her a long ways away from thinking of it as a regular fare.
The bullet was caught, looked over for a moment, before she seemed to disregard its existence. Leaning forward, she offered it back to the man next to her and he lifted it from her fingertips. At his question, her eyes narrowed. "Anyone should." If they had any brains, dedication, or honor to uphold that was. It seemed possibly the stupidest question she'd heard in some time. Was this man really as dumb as he came off?
“Anyone should. But obviously, not everyone did.” Rictor jerked a thumb back to the campfire, the distant faces and backs half-illuminated by the guttering light, the people pacing the camp and pitching their tents. “As you can see, not every able-bodied, non-plague-ridden fighter is here. If anyone should, then what the fuck do you make of that?”
His teeth were a flash of white, a grin more strained than his usual. (The attempt to sound cavalier wasn’t quite working.)
The lack of able bodied fighters hadn't gone missing from her radar for the duration of the trip. However, it had done nothing but continue to egg on her belief that most fighters didn't even remotely deserve the time of day, nor to be included in a guild with such a powerful history or connections. Of course, the point that was missing here as well, was that some people did need to assure that their city remained safe as well. Not all fighters could leave the city, it just wouldn't make sense.
"Get over it." Her eyes came up to level with his for the brief sentence, holding the gaze long enough to make her point before cooly turning away, and down to work on preloading a clip.
“I’m not under anything, Uppsala. Just pointing out the problem in your assumption. I don’t give a flying shit about what they choose to do. It’s Faram’s job to judge, not mine.” Words he should probably take to heart. But now Rictor was simply rattling off words for the sake of filling the silence, one word after another bricking up the pauses between them.
“Wrong.” The single word was clipped, inconsiderate to some degree, and clearly not interested in the conversation the man was trying to make, but also unwilling to let him make assumptions about what she was saying in this moment as well. There was an entire world outside of Rictor Cassul that the rest of them inhabited and quite frankly, Ceres Uppsala’s part of that world didn’t give a shit about a grumpy moronic, bull of a man playing with his toys.
And then he finally gave up. They two gunbladists went back to tending their weapons, settling into a tense and strained silence (the one he’d been trying so hard to avoid). With no other distractions at hand, all he could think of was the battle ahead, the sick and dying waiting for their return.