Virgil only rolled his eyes. The man was paranoid, he'd lost a lot of blood; and- frankly? If he died in his cart it would provide food for the mamarmot at least. He didn't mind death, it was a fact of life; a fact of the entirety of the world they were in. Death around every corner, rock, tree- even within one's own communities it lurked. Crazed mutants, covetous men, all were seen as equal prey- by the Church of the Gun. He only gave the man a brief eye, before continuing on. Speaking that strange, whistling; language the the beast he used to haul the cart. The cart itself? A smooth ride, in comparison to dragging oneself. There were bumps, jumps, and jounces. But- he was off his feet. He could recuperate. And... Like most, he probably wouldn't be questioned. If anything he might even be tended to by medicine men if his friendly new companion had anything to do with it. Stroking the mamarmot slowly, he cooed, coddled, and generally kept it calm. And away from the bushes. Although, he was on a side that left him open to the field.<br/><br/>A good idea, considering what could live in the jungles. The man's paranoia? It was warranted with the attitude. He was forced to be friendly, it's how traders engaged in trade. But, other than that? His gun at his side, and his lack of fear for what could have been an ambush? Obviously he was an experienced hand at this. Plus, it wasn't likely that a man with furs would be trying to murder humans for leather. As that would be a waste of ammunition- and he only seemed to have knives on him. Other than the gun.<br/><br/>So, onward they 'sped'. To civilization.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>