"No, I am not ready to die," Wallace stated as the procession marched out. He kept his eyes to the floor, watching each tile go by beneath them as the group made fair pace to the Tower of the Thistle. Their path was clear, each group of guards seeming to have sloughed off to some duty or another. As they paced the empty corridors, he couldn't help but whistle a merry little sea-tune, one he'd heard only that day. With each step they grew closer, he found himself excited. For all he knew, all he saw, Thomas had in fact put out one of his eyes. Poetic justice had ensued but he thought Thomas was doing very well for one of his condition. What lay beyond the walls was a mystery, and of course the Tower was the place Thomas had chosen. Slowly, his whistling died, he couldn't keep the pace. He doubted there would even be words for him to say when they got there, he certainly didn't intend to talk to Thomas out of bounds. It wasn't out of spite or a need to withhold information: that was what would make the man do what needed to be done.

---

Feril slowly emerged from the stairwell as she was bid walking out to see that Sir Pyper had found a rope and a peculiar stranger had joined them on the walls, quite on the battlements. He stood there simply watching and waiting with an expectant look on his face like the actors were moving too slowly on the stage. "What do you expect me to do with that?" Feril asked, looking between the rope and the battlements with a slowly growing dismay. It wasn't as if there was much more she could go through that day, but scaling the palace walls wasn't something she particularly wanted to do. Waiting until the long way became available was a much more attractive action, but she wasn't in a position to argue. Decided on at least hearing him out, her eyes settled on Pyper, who seemed more than at odds with their new guest. The danger didn't quite register, even though they were both armed. The other man looked harmless, postured up on the stones.