Immediately, Abel discovered that he'd presumed too much. The ordinarily-cheery ray of sunshine known as Krysanthe had turned downcast; evidently the guardian's estimation of her team's cohesion lay way off the mark. No amount of wanting would make it possible to stuff those errant words back in, though, so crafted a resolution to say the right thing the next time. A moment later, Abel's companion brightened herself up again anyway, and the guardian felt relieved that his thoughtless comment hadn't provoked something more dire. He nodded in affirmation, sure that such a charismatic person would be able to smooth things over for her team. A pang of jealousy prodded him when he realized that he wouldn't be able to do the same. Would Swansong be a house divided for all the years to come, or could there be some sort of reconciliation to unify the four individuals into the team they were supposed to be? That would take someone who knew how people felt and thought, who could inspire and empathize. Abel wanted to, but he could not.
The pair resumed their trek through the forest. All sorts of obstacles barred their way, from fallen trees and babbling streams to more skirmishes with Grimm, though none so atypical as the Redcap. Time slipped by; Abel ruminated repeatedly on how enjoyable the semi-combative hike was, and how the minutes never seemed to drag on. After a little while, he asked Krysanthe. “So...where are you from?”
The minute mannerisms of Ferris did not escape Ozpin's notice, but neither did they present cause for Ozpin's stately expression to change. Instead, Beacon's Headmaster returned the slight inclination of head to the new student in acknowledgment, then in the span of a few moments gave a short glance to each person present as if taking a final stock. “I'll leave you to your rest,” he intoned in a soft voice. “Farewell.” Ozpin then took his leave, returning the way he came to the tune of his cane's steady click against cobblestone.
A rhythmic and perhaps now-familiar
tap-tap-tap echoed down the corridor of the infirmary. At this time of day, the main lights all throughout the facility had been dimmed so that the natural light could pour in through its plentiful windows. This also meant that the extraordinarily tall shadow of the incoming person could be easily seen through the door left open by Trad. Seconds later, headmaster Ozpin himself appeared in the aperture. A shadow veiled his face, but he wasted no time in stepping into the window's light. Its radiance revealed a look of concern on his face, though one without excessive sympathy—perhaps his concern wasn't directed, as might a nurse's or a mother's, to Robert's health.
“Good morning,” he told the two boys, though he kept his nut-brown eyes on the bedridden redhead. “I am told that you have recovered enough to converse normally. Are you available for a few words...Mr. Fallson?” Placing his cane in front of him, Ozpin clasped both hands over its top, his demeanor plaintive.
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