There is ice in Ellis' hair. Frost rimes the edges of his breastplate and pauldrons. Mud has spattered his boots, colors his knees in dark patches where he might have knelt in the course of the day's activities. (Sharp eyes can find the spattering of blood, dark where it has sprayed up along one arm, flecking the scale across hip and side.) He is drawing off his gloves, looking over the vestiges of Tony's work before his eyes raise to Tony himself, satisfied with what he has made of this makeshift workspace and it's present state.

Huffing, Ruadh has pressed on ahead. Equally marked by the day's work, the mabari has no hesitations about trekking towards the fire.

"You are going," is more observation than question.

And thankfully not the beginning of an argument, because it is clear to Ellis that Tony has no intentions of digging in his heels and joining the battle in the morning.