[Hubert is equally content to fall to silence, his steps automatic as his mind wanders to the logistics of locating Hector. His mind cleared as he got his breath back; surely, she's tried contacting Hector on the Watches—what need would she half of running out if that worked? If he's involved with the effort at the Outpost... Hubert had a number of potions that could tide him over. Coffee wouldn't hurt. He could siphon the magic stored in his reptilian familiar, store Dust in his winter coat, take one of Edelgard's blood flasks for emergency power...]
[And if his thoughts drifted to the parallels of his past a few more times, Hubert didn't dwell on or acknowledge it.]
[His Agarthan lance clatters to the street when Leslie stumbles, Hubert grunting as he drops to a knee to catch her with his good arm. Poor girl. This night had asked too much of her already. It's a tricky affair, juggling Leslie against his good shoulder essentially one-armed into a decent grip. Normally, her meager weight wouldn't be an issue—after their encounter, it posed a challenge. But they were close, Hubert muses as he staggers back to his feet. Then he freezes; it takes a moment to realize the darkness creeping its way around his arm and chest is Leslie's familiar, a gentle pressure pushing Leslie more firmly against his shoulder as the sentient shadows wrap their tendrils in a sling-like manner.]
[It isn't significant aid, but the shadows' effort does ease the girl's weight. And it's like that Hubert arrives at their dwelling some minutes later, an unconscious Leslie held against his shoulder by arm and shadow-familiar alike, the duo battered but whole. The only scent of blood about them was that of the already dried and scabbed, the torn coat of Hubert's other shoulder with whole skin under. One side of his jaw was beginning to impressively purple, but he could live with that.]
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[And if his thoughts drifted to the parallels of his past a few more times, Hubert didn't dwell on or acknowledge it.]
[His Agarthan lance clatters to the street when Leslie stumbles, Hubert grunting as he drops to a knee to catch her with his good arm. Poor girl. This night had asked too much of her already. It's a tricky affair, juggling Leslie against his good shoulder essentially one-armed into a decent grip. Normally, her meager weight wouldn't be an issue—after their encounter, it posed a challenge. But they were close, Hubert muses as he staggers back to his feet. Then he freezes; it takes a moment to realize the darkness creeping its way around his arm and chest is Leslie's familiar, a gentle pressure pushing Leslie more firmly against his shoulder as the sentient shadows wrap their tendrils in a sling-like manner.]
[It isn't significant aid, but the shadows' effort does ease the girl's weight. And it's like that Hubert arrives at their dwelling some minutes later, an unconscious Leslie held against his shoulder by arm and shadow-familiar alike, the duo battered but whole. The only scent of blood about them was that of the already dried and scabbed, the torn coat of Hubert's other shoulder with whole skin under. One side of his jaw was beginning to impressively purple, but he could live with that.]