The trek into the wilderness had been mostly silent, save for the occasional moment to offer a polite hand to help the more fragile of the pair over a log or boulder. Neither Vincent nor Svalin knew what had possessed Lord Odin to make the decision to send them on this quest together. Vincent had his suspicions, but nothing he wanted to voice out loud to the Sif-dottir; he was just happy for any passing hour that she didn't lop his head off. There was a faint grunt of approval when he asked her if her soup was acceptable, after they had made camp for the night.
They headed out shortly before sunrise, finally catching the first proper sign of their quarry. Two claw-marks on a rock. “Well, at least we know we're going the right way.” Vincent said, smiling hopefully at Svalin.
She gave him an even look in return. “The beast will die. See that your casting and machines do not interfere with my combating it.”
“...right.” Vincent cleared his throat and got moving again.
It was after three days with only the sparsest signs of the dragon that Vincent's impatience finally pushed him to the breaking point. He veered off the course they were on and headed back for a hunter's camp they had spotted in the distance a few hours earlier.
“Where art thou going, Vernard?”
“To ask for directions.”
Svalin paused, cocking an eyebrow. “It was my understanding that men of Midgard find such a thing beneath them.” She almost smirked.
“Yes, well... diminished as I may be, I am not of Midgard.” Vincent responded, giving the same almost smirk, before turning again.
Svalin watched him trudge onwards for a few minutes, then, with a sufficient grunt of annoyance, followed him.
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