"Mister Lone... what are you waiting for?"
Tycondrius stood with his arms crossed, impatiently tapping a finger against his bicep.
The bronze-skinned Ranger was spending an overlong amount of time inspecting a set of ornately carved double doors. The concentrated care and cautiousness he was displaying was... bizarre, particularly for him.
He was being timid.
"I uh... I dunno, Boss..." Lone idly scratched the scar on his cheek, "Every time I go into one of these rooms, I get really hurt..."
The first two rooms, it was Lone's fault that he blundered into injury. In the storeroom-- notably free of hostiles, he overdrew from his mana reserves. Each instance was his own thrice-damned fault.
"Move," Tycon ordered, "If you won't open the door, I'll breach it for us."
"I mean... if you want. But I really should be the one--"
Tycon rolled his eyes, "Away, Mister Lone."
"Aye aye, Boss..."
