Ben's large frame was hunched forward, tailbone (and tail) up against the base of the wall. His forearms rested atop his bent knees, hands dangling with frustration and melancholy. When the dark little hand closed the gap between them, and touched to his knee, he didn't flinch. But his lungs drew in a very deep breath to allow him a good sigh.
"It's just those pesky feelin's showin' through," the brogue-voiced giant explained to her, wryly. The lot of them, it turned out, hand feelings. That tended to happen, Ben had realized long ago, when you spent a while with people in the metaphoric trenches. "Ye're makin' progress with Adalon, I noticed. Good show. Just keep yerselves clear of archers next time, aye?"