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The four of them all but pour themselves into the next rest site.
Everyone is various levels of chewed up, stung, envenomed, and caked in wax. These infested levels of the Spire may not be the most difficult portion of their journey, but by the Ancients, are they the most unpleasant.
Tiredly, the Silent tugs on the Ironclad's little finger, before pointing at the puffy, frizzy mess that is her braid. He blinks, glances at the other two members of their party, one telling his minions to stop messing around with Osty and the other telling Osty to stop trying to juggle the minions, before deciding that, yeah, he’s okay with this.
"Return the favor?" He rasps in response. She nods.
So when the Ironclad sits down on the log, the Silent does not sit next to him, but on the ground between his legs. The two of them pay no heed to the curious looks from the Regent and the Necrobinder sitting on the other log.
When the Silent reaches up to pull her hood back, the lich startles, quickly averting her eyes. The monarch, still curious, leans forward with interest, exactly as aware of the conventions that have the Necrobinder looking away as he was before.
(Which is to say, not at all.)
The Necrobinder snipes at him about it. The Regent nips back. The two most seasoned members of the party continue to pay no heed to them.
The huntress ducks down to slide her precious ceremonial skull from her head, where her face is obscured by her knees. That’s where it remains as she sets the skull down beside her.
Wordlessly, the Ironclad pulls the thin strip of soft hide tying her braid off loose, holds it in his mouth as he carefully takes the braid apart. He unwinds the locks, picks bits of dried gore out of the strands, gently combing his fingers through it until they stop catching.
And then he starts to braid it.
The warrior almost wishes that he could remember how to do the more complicated braids that his sisters would always pester him to learn, until they were practiced enough to do that for each other. It's gone with the rest of it, though. He shakes such thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand.
The other two have stopped their bickering to start watching again, intrigue winning out over uncertain politeness or the desire to keep their little verbal slap-fight going.
“What are you doing?” The Regent asks, inquisitive.
“He’s braiding her hair, obviously.” The Necrobinder states.
“I didn’t ask you.” The monarch responds, not missing a beat. And in the same breath: “Is it customary for people with long hair to braid it?”
“It’s more preference, I believe. It’s a way to make long hair more manageable.”
“Oh. Why not just cut it?”
“Again, preference. Some people prefer their hair long. Or—Well, maybe it’s tradition. I don’t know, it changes depending on who you’re asking.” The lich hums contemplatively.
“Tradition.” The Ironclad responds, taking the leather strip from between his teeth to tie the braid off anew. “Long hair, long life lived. Rare when life is as dangerous as it is. Braiding it is the preference.”
The Silent nods in affirmation, redressing herself with her skull and her hood.
The warrior goes to stand and swap places with her, only for her to knock her knuckles against his knee, hard. The knee that a Hunter-Killer tried to gnaw through. The Ironclad winces, dropping back down and glowering at her as she meets the glare with her own flat look. Whatever unspoken argument they have, she wins, and he huffs, remaining seated on the log as she stands up to walk behind him.
It seems the huntress taking off her headthings had desensitized the other two, as there’s significantly less fanfare when he removes his own. The Regent makes a surprised noise, though, when his braid tumbles down his shoulder from where it was coiled under his helmet. It’s also long due to be redone, hair sticking out strangely in spots where it tried to escape the plait entirely.
“You have much more hair than I thought you had.” The monarch says, with some amount of awe.
“What, did you think he was bald under there?” The lich retorts, though secretly, she agrees. The Silent has to crush a snort into the collar of her cloak as she unwraps his braid. The Ironclad blinks the most long-suffering blink that has ever occurred in the long history of Preon’s existence as a planet.
“Lich,” The Regent begins, narrowing his eye. “I cannot, in spite of my vast, cosmic wisdom, even begin to describe how little any of you are indicative of what the rest of your species looks like.”
At this point, the Ironclad tunes out of the conversation, because the Silent’s fingers are combing through his hair now, her nails scraping softly against his scalp. She treats his hair as he’s treated hers, he can feel it in how diligently she partitions it out. The sensation trickles down his spine, bleeds a warmth utterly incomparable to the searing burn of his blood into his heart and skull. He closes his eyes, and lets the tension seep from his frame.
Tugging the braid to the side a bit, the huntress weaves it in such a way so as to make it easy to coil and tuck back under his helmet when she’s done. She works deftly, and soon, far too soon, she’s finishing it off with the scrap of crimson cord that he always uses. The Ironclad reaches up to feel it, even though he already knows he’ll be happy with the results.
“You already crossed those two strands.”
“Hmph.”
The two of them look across the campfire. Apparently, the conversation has reached the point where the Necrobinder is now facing the Regent on the log, pointing at the strands of light he’s trying to twist together into a glowing replica of a braid.
“Might have extra hands, soon.” The Ironclad chuckles quietly, shifting to look up at the Silent. “Would you let them?”
The huntress puts a hand to her chin, considering it. Before shrugging.
Yeah, she’d be okay with that.