Redsand Canyon but the room is so quiet

The rain mattered little to Finley. Pitiful was the soldier who yielded to a passing storm. Had she been thinking strategically, she may have considered that the weather may have masked her scent to passerby, or that other Saints would sleep comfortably tucked away from such melancholy conditions.

But Finley was not thinking, at least not to her usual hyper-aware extent. If tangible thoughts passed her mind at all, they fled fast as the drops from sky to ground: fleeting, indiscernible. She certainly wasn’t trying to be stealthy. Something primal dragged her on, intoxicating in its simplicity.

“And where are you going?”

Should’ve heard that coming.

With the gentle tap of a hammer the trance snapped—but it had yet to fall to pieces, not when she recognized that voice. Renard. What a character this one was. There would be no straightforward “what are you doing here”—this was Renard, why wouldn’t he be here.

Finley slowed enough to glance back, nearly pausing but not quite. She regarded Renard with what she thought was her usual skepticism, but she wasn’t thinking; beyond her recognition or control, her brow had furrowed into an uneven squint, lip curled back, blink-and-you-miss-it. “Could ask the same of you.” Words ran together in a single breath, as if she’d choke if she wasted another second.

She wasn’t mad at Renard, was she? What had the hybrid done but play word ricochet, even spar; regardless of how the latter had gone, Renard’s scars were not those of an unseasoned fighter. Hadn’t he said something about that, being trusted and important and then leaving? The details seemed so very hazy and Finley lacked the patience to fish for them.

In fact, she somehow didn’t have the patience to play at all. Initial impression sealed, Finley swung her head forward again, though she summoned a renewed awareness in case Renard followed. It wouldn’t be the first time if he did; one Saint trailing off and away to hell-knows-where, another following in baffled ignorance of their intentions. How long Renard maintained this follow-the-leader charade was of little concern to her; what mattered, if nothing else, was if he attacked.

High alert. Assuming the worst. In Finley’s book, essential traits. How lacking they seemed to be.

“Are you here to stop me?” Less scathing, no less taut. Possibly the most straightforward question she’d asked the Blade yet.