The man's calm, the note of sadness in his voice, chills Estinien's embarrassment-fueled ire. "Well, good," he says huffily, settling himself down again, The lance stays by his side, still, within fingers-width of him as it always is. All men cling to their weapons in times of war but Estinien's attachment at times resembles that of a child with a comfort toy rather than a soldier with his instrument. The lance is more than a weapon to him.

"I would have no trouble offering such comfort again, whatever that damn mage says, but not in trade," he grumbles, staring into the embers before them. "I know there are places for such matters. I have no interest in them."

(His eyes reflect the firelight more than those of an Elezen should. The way a beast's eyes would gleam in the night. If he is aware, he has not spoken of it.)