Astrid comes hobbling out with the rest of the group. She’s paler than usual, and not just from lack of sun; her ankle’s fucked and her face tight with lingering pain, limping in a makeshift splint and using someone else’s arm for support, crutches not exactly having been on the packing list when they first came here.

Even the green-tinged Necropolis lamps make her blink, owlish; it’s like they’re goblins stumbling bleary-eyed out into the light—

“Define ‘work’,” she shoots back, but also can’t help that rush of relief, seeing him, seeing the others, seeing light. Thank the fucking Mountain-Father.