Claire had finally arrived at the area, lance in tow on his shoulder. The situation seemed to be fairly settled already. Though he wasn't around to hear the words, the fact is that the men in the strange new party were gathering the wounded. His Lady was offering to heal their own. This meant that both parties are not worried about attack from each other. Finally sensing that a temporary peace had replaced the sweet-sick smell of bloody fighting, Claire felt it was safe to lift his face-plate and talk. It was a rather weird helmet, with the mouth seemingly opening in a sleepy yawn to unveil the knight's face and small locks of blonde hair escaping into the small open space.<br/><br/>The knight turned to find the bum next to him, a most unsavory-looking fellow with something black burning his hand while he rambled on about friendship and magic. He didn't seem like much of a threat, but rather than finding out what's on his mind, it seemed best to abide by his Lady's orders for now and take care of the injured. For now though, he'd worry about his own party. Worry about how whoever taught Lady Laplace archery would probably be extremely proud that his or her little princess had just performed a suitably prompt drive-by on ruffians!<br/><br/>Regardless, at least now with the helmet cover out of the way, Claire could finally ascertain that his voice could reach beyond the steel maw.<br/><br/>"Sir Aurich. Release your guard and come hither. Let Lady Laplace heal your wounds. Miss... I apologize about the bandits doing away with your clothing. Though it is rude for me to offer, I am sure that we can procure warm dress for you immediately."<br/><br/>As Clueless Claire finished his sentence, the knight arrived near the surrendering Wyvern Rider and held out a clawed, black hand for support.<br/><br/>"Come, Sir Charton Hildegard! Let us worry about your actions later. For now, I must thank you for assisting us and keeping our Grace safe in brutal combat. I'll help you over to her side."<br/><br/>Well, if we're honest, Claire was less being civil and more feeling that if he tries anything funny now, the Rider's throat was well within convenient ripping range.