Archer's jaw has been clenched since the smell of ash first reached her nose, and if it carries on like this she'll crack a tooth. Everything is dead here. The very air is tinged with it. Even the snow, which should be white and pure, is sullied to a greyish black colour.

But she cannot mourn the damage to the environment for too long. A more prominent problem is presenting itself.

"Well, I'm glad this is one party we missed," she says lightly, trying to catch Zofia's attention. When her Master continues to stare at the ground, Archer followes her gaze to a set of tracks through the mud, most likely Michel's bike, heading away from the battlefield. Knowing her fellow countryman got away gladdens Archer's heart, but Zofia's expression is unreadable. "Penny for your thoughts?