She's on the verge of adding in her own confirmation, letting Claude know that she hunts these deserts on the reg, when Ciri makes her entrance. Her usual spirit may be a touch dampened and worn by the loss of Harrowhark and the abrupt, blazing suddenness of so much death, but even Gideon sparks just a little now their group is shaping up. Wingman-- check. Hot badass gal pal-- check. New dude-- if he's pals with Jesper then surely he's a decent sort. She isn't out here to enjoy herself, but that doesn't mean it has to suck. Right now it doesn't look as though it's going to.

She keeps Claude's mention of adventures at home in her back pocket for later; she's been here a good while now, her cramped, dark world has expanded significantly, but that doesn't mean she's grown tired of tales of guts and glory. For now though, she turns with a flutter of her ragged cloak - long and dusty-sand coloured, her usual black attire ditched for something more desert-practical - and follows the soldier toward their waiting horses.

"I can ride," she chips in as their boots crunch over the dusty ground, "and a flesh and blood horse has gotta be easier than a construct, right? Less devastating on the ass."