[the rain is just about coming to a stop, a light drizzle the only comfort they have left as the storm clouds push away from them. thunder rumbles up above, but it's distant, now, and the boars that weren't killed have now fled. well—wanda can only think that all this will be good meat to leave with aloy and share with the settlements, as winter approaches.

wanda's lamenting to herself how the mud's dirtied the bottom of her skirt and boots, but she looks up at him as the words reach her.]

I don't know what kind of armor you're looking for. [she knows of armor, but it's not her area of expertise. she pulls back damp hair from her face, behind her ears, and gives him a look.] Why would I want a sword?

[that's just as tall as she is, and probably too heavy for her to wield? please, sandor.]

—I take it you like it. There's a blacksmith in the settlements, you realize.

[...somewhere...wanda isn't sure if the man's too old to keeping smithing, though. it's, again, not her area.]