Still bleary eyed, Rook emerged from his tent, with his pick/warhammer in hand. He had never shed his vented leather snake-boots and for good reason. He looked ready for a fight, but this was no surprise since he had been promoting a preparedness that most had apparently taken to heart.
[color=8888aa]“Aaw blazes,”[/color] Rook grumbled, [color=8888aa]“We aren’t even to the thick of it yet.”[/color]

He took a moment to size up the situation. It was difficult to make out details this far, but he seemed much more relaxed at this assessment.

He returned to the fire with Cillian, and tossed a bottle to him, and made himself comfortable around the fire, [color=8888aa]"If we’re going to die out here, might as well do it with a bit of joy out under the stars."[/color]

The bottle was an unopened though small fine clay bottle of whiskey, the brand that Cillian knew. However much he preferred the draught, it was usually priced a little too unpalatable save for special occasions. Rook himself, plucked a sack from around his neck to produce a small object which he took a bite of and began chewing.

He took a glance back. [color=8888aa]“I doubt Othen would do much, albeit he’s dangerous, you don’t pick fights when you don’t have to out here... just a scratch could be enough to leave you to the flies and wasps."[/color]

He took another glance to Cillian to check his expression. [color=8888aa]”I don’t suppose Grace knows better. Does she seem angry to you? I mean more so than usual.”[/color]

He flicked back, then forth weighing and listening to where this was all going. It was hardly visible, but in his lax attitude, he was actually keeping a close eye on everything. Not just the disagreement. With a nonchalant glance, after placing Cillian on one side, and the argument on the other, he was able to observe without seeming to actually be doing it.