'Gone to the nether,' Don claimed of Dean. Aza gave him a skeptical glance from her perch behind who-was-once-the-General, but said nothing to him in return. Just looked away, at the sparse shadows of the few tall plants that dotted the otherwise blank, bleak landscape. Those shadows -- and their own -- were the only ones to exist as the sun slipped up in the likewise featureless sky.<br/><br/>But Donovan added that Dean, off in the netherwhatever, was 'recovering.' And 'recovering' wasn't 'dead.'<br/><br/>She tipped back the edge of her hood, squinting up into the blaze of that sunlight. Ship, fox, Dean. There were always things happening around Aza that were either entirely uninteresting or that she really didn't understand -- or, often, both -- and usually she got along just fine regardless. Now, though, she was stuck on a horse heading deeper into the chaos desert, with companions who maybe didn't want or need her. Don had said he'd return her to what had been her most recent home, but now they were heading still further away... and lacking not only Dean but the more honorable version of Methuseld, not to mention yet pursued by assassins, Don was surrounded by more potential enemies than friends. How was he supposed to follow through on that promise?<br/><br/>The Knight and Ravishing were having a long conversation about just what had become of the somewhat sour blonde General. More than once the raven-haired woman became quite adamantly animated upon some point she felt held importance, making Aza have to shy away from a flung gesture that included a dangerous amount of sharp slicey pseudo-armor. The girl's petite hands occasionally brushed the woman's soft bare skin, which recalled the sheer amount of padding and plate that had been previously required to pry off Methuseld when Aza had had her on the almost absurdly huge bed down in the hold. Actually, what the other woman wore now looked like it'd been found in that slightly surreal, dreamily nightmarish brothel setting. A warrioress's string bikini, straight out of some darkly skewed imagination. Or some<em>one's.</em><br/><br/>Ravishing was accusing Don of being a suspicious dick, and Aza actually wondered if he might not be right to be one, this time. Maybe the daylight was dispelling the shadow that had clung like a scent to the foxgirl. Or maybe the magic effects were just wearing thin with time or use. The cicadas were quiet and the shadows were few, and she was beginning to feel more clearly aware of her predicament. And also that she was hungry, and tired again, and still lightly splattered in blood.<br/><br/>"For Dean to recover," Aza broke in, "how long? When?"<br/><br/>The fox, perched on the front of Don's saddle with its forepaws on the horse's neck, turned to look at her.<em>Dean, </em>it said with a snort, causing the horse to turn back an uneasy ear.<em>Unnecessary.</em>And it turned its attentions back towards Ravishing, ears cocked as if to say 'go on.'<br/><br/>"But if he were... missing a piece, what then?" Aza persisted, staring at Don, trying to sound nonchalant but too tired to totally conceal the apprehension in her big blue eyes.<br/><br/><em>He's fine,</em>said the fox, eyes slitted.<em>Forget about him too. We're good, just the three of us.</em><br/><br/>"...Which three?" Aza asked it, hesitantly.