Dick has found a sizable jut of rock to put his back to at the floor of the ravine -- broad and robust enough to catch the worst of any lightning that might crack sizzling overhead, but low enough for him to twist and peek over the top when the dragon howls. He's familiar enough with the tone of Jone's cries to read them without obvious concern.

There is room for one more with him, in his hidey hole. Maybe two if they’re creative and flexible -- he’s long and lean in thieves’ leathers. The sort of armor a single talon could easily punch through front to back.

But that’s what he has this rock and the sense of self-preservation needed to stay behind it for.