Solvej had spent most of the return journey in an uncharacteristic silence, for what was there to say? She found herself in the unusual position of being caught between two parts of her life that she had thought to keep separate. Here, she was Solvej the Warden, valued if not entirely-reliable ally and proven time and again to be worthy of her place among the skilled ranks of the Grey.
But now, enter a figure from a past she would rather not remember, an exchange brief and terse and to the point, for truly, he was but peripheral in her torment, and it was better that way. Easier to ignore the fragments of memory, stirring ephemeral on the edges of her mind, like relics of a half-remembered dream from long ago. It was fortunate, that he did not often feature in these memories, that he was, in the grand scheme of things, not at all at issue.
It made it possible to tolerate his presence.
Still, were she not to set off immediately on this little death march of theirs, she would have had a few choice words for Malik about his appreciation for irony. And surely, the man would have heard her, that light smile on his face that meant he was actually considering something with all due gravitas, but knew that, regardless, he was right, and then of course he would have asked her if indeed her practicality had failed her after the intervening years. It had not, of course, and she would have conceded the point, but only after a parting shot about trusting her enough to inform her.
Ah, but if I had informed you, would you have gone? The answer, they both knew, and the bastard (affectionately called, for in truth she was most hostile to the people she actually liked) would have kept on smiling that roguish half-tilt and things would have been no different than when they started. Except, perhaps, that Solvej would have felt better about it. Unfortunately, simply knowing how the conversation would proceed was not enough to produce the attendant effects, and in the end, she was uneasy, in the way that one who does not know if she is guilty is uneasy being watched.
Still, it was easy enough to conceal, and none would know how deep that feeling ran, regardless of their perceptiveness. She had great practice with this, and by the time she approached the group by the wagon, she practically radiated confidence and casual ease, with just a hint of something unnamable with any word other than trouble. Not quite danger, not quite mischief, but something indefinably in-between. It was Solvej’s default affectation, for all of those awkward situations like this one.
She might have remained mounted, but it occurred to her that this was hardly the impression to make upon such a frankly ridiculous collection of people. Most, she knew; one was bloody well missing, and if he didn’t show up soon, she’d have his head herself, the sot. Those she didn’t were easy enough to pick out based on Malik’s information: she was half a mind to whistle and quip at the sheer size of the shapeshifter, but Blathnat was already saying something to him, so she didn’t bother.
The shortest member of their group, Solvej already knew she would like. Unapologetic-looking and heavily-armored, she had a feeling they’d be spending a considerable amount of time together on the front lines of things and possibly drinking like fish afterwards. The bombastic mage, she ignored, though not from disrespect: she’d known his sister, once upon a time, and their circumstances were similar enough that she generally avoided speaking to him. He might not know that this was why, but she didn’t much care about that one way or another.
The Seeker, she assumed was skulking. She didn’t know exactly where, but he was not the type to either wander away from the mission or to make social niceties with people. He’d have to break himself of that at least a little if he wanted to work in a team setting, but she’d leave that for him to figure out.
In the ends, what she did was dismount for a moment and peer at their leader. Though it was not common knowledge, Solvej was aware of why the girl was picked, and though having someone else waltzing around in your dreams was very strange, it had also given her something of an odd regard for the diminutive elf. She looked quite like a youngling still, but in the Fade she was something else entirely.
“You’ll do,” was all she said, with that understated pronouncement, the Black Templar swung once again astride Wagner, himself taller than their leader, and took point at the caravan. There was just that useless fop of a mentee, Rhapscallion, left, and if she knew him (and she did), he’d be along in all due time, frantic apologies and foolish gallantry firmly in tow.