Foud's hands, despite the thick gloves, were now covered with cuts as he cleared away the sharp debris with his bare hands. Beside him, Moain did the same with his scythe, pushing out the larger pieces so his friend wouldn't get hurt further. His hands were bleeding from the shards of glass and metal debris.
"Foud, your hands," the taller one dared to point out, careful with his tone of voice.
"My hands are better than them. Look for. Do not stop. If we don't find them before the Lord arrives, we're all dead."
"You should stop. Look at your condition."
"They are somewhere below and there are children. My condition is not important."
Moain didn't reply, stunned at the way his friend spoke. Foud was an anxious person whose voice rose quickly in the treble when he was very nervous. But there, he remained completely calm, his voice didn't fluctuate. The lightning god was trembling nonetheless, and not just from the cold.
"Foud…"
"Leave me."
