A bag of skin and bones (and wool and fur and anything else half-warm and left unattended in her presence for a second too long —) flops down beside, without apparent regard for the cold or damp.

It's a whole lot of regard, in truth. Never thought she'd say a prayer for the fact they've got mages with them, but any of this goes wrong, and the smug fucks might be the only thing keeping keeping them from frostbite. There's an ache in her bones she knows isn't just cold-deep, and the smell of the fire doesn't help none.

But that's just for her to know.

"Y'all ain't hurt?" Dropping on her own legs like that, smiling like that. Could be relief, could be a lot of things. Worth asking, at least as an excuse to go fumbling in her pockets, filch out a battered little pipe and flint. She chews at the end, and doesn't look over. "Didn't crack your head or nothing?"

She's a sensitive soul.