Loath though he is to admit as much, occasionally Wrench finds it nice to sit at a real table instead of hunching over the dying embers of his own campfire. He's survived what he assumes to be the worst of winter without the need for permanent shelter, and that feels like a victory. Of course, it's a win against a challenge that no one issued. Several people, in fact, suggested that he not. They were quick to point out the commune's generosity in providing housing to those in need of it, but Wrench doesn't consider himself in particular need of anything.

Except a few rashers and some strong coffee. He's on his second cup when Sandor bursts in. Wrench notices, of course, but he's surprised when the other man doesn't approach. Sandor's efforts at some kind of strange propriety amuse him into a smile as he finishes the last bits of his meal and prepares to sit back. No such luck in letting the food digest, it seems.

I think the pile of skinned hide back at my camp would argue with you calling me useless.

He's standing, though, and there's no mistaking he looks eager. Wrench isn't sure he's ever held a real sword in his life. He's fucked around with plenty of cardboard tubes and downed tree limbs, but this is the real deal. Wrench grabs it off the table and trails along after Sandor without even trying to mask an urgent kind of enthusiasm.