While the snarky girl Malcador found himself stuck with went to go and fetch a stick for their meal, the wizard set the fish down next to the fire, letting it cook a bit before they would really strip it and get it simmering. He reached into his smaller pack, with his barest necessities that stupidly did not include food. His larger pack was long ransacked by grubby greenskin hands, but he still had a bit of his supernal divination powder. It was good for little more than thaumaturgical magician tricks, but it did help with the location of a person or place, especially when the practitioner was starving and tired. He took a sizeable pinch of it and tossed it into the fire. The flame gave a soft woomp as grew in size for a brief moment as he began to chant softly to himself, staring into the flames. The middle sections of his fingers were pressed together in a light fist, save for the index and thumbs, their tips touching. He repeated the rhythmic incantation, and willed the flames to show him the location of the imperial forces, if there were any left. For over a full minute he chanted, the fire consuming his vision as he delved deeper into the spell, and for a moment he thought he was having a bit of mystical impotence. 

However, he began to see muddy ground; soiled and mud-caked tents, drooping horses and the faces of downtrodden and wounded soldiers. Some he recognized, many he did not, most had not come out of the battle unscathed. He shifted the view, trying to ascertain the approximate location from his own, but his first, more petty priority was to see if his fearless leader was still alive. Eventually the inimical, bovine face of little Lord Wegindorf appeared as he chastized the unsung heroic sergeants that no doubt had kept him alive, or at least whatever remnants of a force they had left. It was a jerimiad of labyrinthine rationale and orphic logic, but to Malcador's satisfaction he looked wounded in the leg and sleepless. His magics began to coalesce a direction and a distance, the ephemeral weaves he cast were drawing back to him with the information he sought, but then he heard the earthen haired bint screaming. 

Immediately his divination was dashed, and it felt like waking up in the middle of a dream. Wearily he tried to blink away the trance, and he stood up with what energy he could muster, stepping to the small doorway of their pitiful shelter to see her waving a stick and yelling that he run. 

"What did-" She did not slow down, and the stupidest thing she could have done, she did. She ran headlong into stone. 

Somehow, by the grace of Sigmar, it was so derelict and ruined that her weight and momentum alone was enough to turn it to rubble, but her feet caught themselves in his, and Malcador had the briefest view of her falling into darkness before he joined her as the earth and tree that had kept them dry collapsed around them, dousing the fire and burying their would-be dinner, along with themselves. 

Some unforeseen time later, Malcador stirred. His head was pounding, and he wondered at the sheer bad luck a celelstial wizard could have. Somehow he had found the only woman in the empire he was not keen on getting to know much better, and now he was...somewhere, without light or food. He pondered this state of affairs as he lay there, refusing to move for a time and fading in and out of consciousness. Ultimately, he knew he could not lay there and waste away like that academy dropout Albericht Kruger, and so he summoned his will and sat up. 

"Hannah?" He whispered, sounding a bit more haggard than he would have liked. "Are you alive?"