Kraft saw Green the following morning.
The latter sat on a coffin beside a small campfire, his matted hair dripping water as white steam rose from the folds of his clothes.
His mop-like, just-out-of-the-water appearance was half reassuring. At least he was sitting on the coffin instead of lying inside it.
It was clear that some emergency had occurred the previous night. The situation had deteriorated in a short time to the point where it could hardly have gotten any worse, forcing the man who should have been overseeing the camp to go out in person.
Most importantly, he'd had not only the courage to leave, but the ability to return. That was rare, and a great relief.
After all, not everyone in the Church was willing to compromise. Without this link, cooperation based only on words would amount to a complete breakdown.
There were no dead in sight, and the priest didn't seem like the sort of man who would sit on a companion's coffin. Somewhat reassured, Kraft went over to greet him.
As soon as he approached, Green, who had been dozing with his eyes closed, quickly grasped the hilt of his sword and turned to look.
His mental state didn't match his excessive, hair-trigger vigilance. His subconscious first decided Kraft was safe, and his fingers relaxed. Only seconds later did he recognize who had come.
"Ah, Professor." Father Green took a deep breath, rousing himself from his muddled state. He raised a hand to stop the professor from finding a place to sit on the coffin lid. "You're later than I expected."
"Could you have imagined I set out around dinnertime yesterday? Not everyone would dare try again after being ambushed on a rainy night."
"An attack?" The key word jolted his nerves, and Green's gaze sharpened.