Pausing, the rogue's face emerges from her silhouette as she turns toward Ada's voice.  Her answer is muted by the hissing insistence of the rain, "Gods, in this muck they'll float off."  She does a quick scan of the melee' remnant meat, re-counting the sprawled forms as if hoping they've shrunken in the rain.  "<em>Shhhhit</em>," she hisses softly, then slogs back to the pools of flickering, amber lamplight and props her sodden gear under the meager shelter of the inn stable's eaves.<br/><br/>For a long moment, the animate shadow of her form flitters about the adjoining lean-to, and she bites back nausea at the loamy smell of wet horses and unclean men.  Here, the wagons now sit with wheels chocked, the horses' wet bulks shushing under the brushes of the work-hands.  The animals twitch nervously at the elven girl's presence, their instinct to flee gives way to their exhaustion and their relief from the rain, but like the horses it seems the meager labor-hands of their company distrust the rogue, muttering and cursing her presence openly.<br/><br/>From that close-packed shed she emerges with a few broken, decaying planks under one arm, and one of the wagoner's shovels propped on the other shoulder like a pike-- this draws a glare, certainly, but little else, as the hands busy themselves at the horses and wagons.  Tha'ael's face is taut with determination, her silvery eyes narrowed against the withering rain.  In this mud, she figures, she should have no trouble with a shallow, mass grave.  "But I'm not praying for them," she says aloud within Ada's earshot.