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"[color=#e3ed74]Trust me,[/color]" Gütta panted, breaking into a jog when he felt himself lagging behind. "[color=#e3ed74]Your secret is safe with me. Is, uh, is that where you're headed?[/color]"

Admittedly he hadn't taken much time to explore the place, once he had found the basic necessities: mess hall, barracks, lavatory, courtyard. If he really needed some new instructions from the Captain, or some clarification on the old ones, then he just needed to follow the noise, and go wherever the crowds had gathered to find her. He had aimed largely for self-sufficiency during his scarce months here, whetting his own weapons, oiling his own leathers, washing his own socks...in no small part because he'd been burned in the past by those people who walked that narrow razor's edge between "pranks" and "sabotage." Though before that, mercenary work instilled in the blood a certain romanticism of spirit, being able to glide over borders and between nations with a silky grace, relying on nothing but gold and camaraderie.