Whoever he is, Roche is going to have fun figuring him out. She's already decided—and he has no say in the matter. She watches the careful stoicism that stays plastered upon his face, giving away nothing, which is damning enough on its own, raising her suspicion that he knows exactly who she is. But she doesn't needle him, instead watching with that cocky arch of her brow and thinking to herself that there will be plenty of time to unravel this surly man in the coming months.
His smirk earns a slight tip of her head, curiosity piqued, and then he proves her suspicions with his next statement, refusing to offer the same curtesy of his name. She hardly expected anything else, but her curiosity is desperate to know if it's him. Roche reveals none of her wild intrigue, letting him turn down the path and flaring her nostrils slightly as soon as he's looking away from her. And, like an absolute child, she sticks her tongue out at his retreating backside before she bounds off into the underbrush and back towards camp.
