She’s a very task-oriented person, this Rose Lalonde. As she studies you you eye her right back, unsure of how much distance you should try to keep between the two of you. When she dodges not one but two questions you resolve to keep as much an eye on her as the rest of this hellhole.
Without a word, though, to begin to search for the lantern. It’s dark enough here that even your eyes are having some trouble, and you can only make out the barest shapes of thing. The Preacher’s husktop is sitting near the wall close to you, next to another of the throbbing pustules. You can see the tiny wireless connection light blinking. Careful not to draw too near the fleshy mass behind it, you sidle over and begin to search that side.
After a minute has gone by, you recall that you had been posed a question before the first explosion of goo.
“He’s slow,” you say softly, not even sure she’ll hear you, “He doesn’t know what to do with an opponent he cannot catch.”
You do hear. Her words carry, just barely, over the sound of your rummaging through Vantas’ things. He will forgive the intrusion, you’re sure.
“Slow and stupid. He grows more charming with each passing moment.”
It’s dryly spoken, but followed by a chirping noise of triumph as your claws catch on the circular handle of a lantern. You tap the glass panes, find them in good condition, and check the oil contained therein.
It occurs to you that you could light your path via your spines, but that would expend energy you would rather conserve for other things. Things you will soon have to face.
You’re half looking forward to it; it has been a long while since you have had a good strife.