Wickwright watched Scarlet Espostin go, and when she was far in the distance, he let out a heavy sigh, walking back to his wagon and leaning heavily on Tristram. From his bag, Hopkin asserted, "I'm not dead," once again, more loudly now that he felt safer in his situation. Wickwright nodded absentmindedly, staring at the hole her arrow had dug into the wall of his wagon.

"A close encounter," he remarked at last. "The Council has unwittingly served us well."

From the bag, Hopkin shrugged, hazarding, "Wickwright Finch, she was frightening, but I do not think that she could shoot the broad side of a barn if she were aiming for it." His Grimm laughed raucously, partially with relief and partially with the earnestness which his Plague had made the comment. For something that sounded so much like a joke, it was delivered the same way Hopkin recited the gravest Jawbone texts. Sure enough, Hopkin reacted with confusion. "It's true!" he insisted, "Our wagon is not even near her targets!"

"Indeed," Wickwright affirmed gravely once he had collected himself, grinning as he pulled himself back into the wagon. "Come on, my little specimen. Let's continue before we get hit with an errant arquebus shot next."

The road wound onwards.