[ His head tilts to the side as he listens to her trail off. There are holes in his theory. While a direwolf, he doubts that Torgal could live on his own in the harsh conditions of Corethas. Someone else must have cared for him and then let him run wild until he found either Jill... or himself. Not that he could fathom why or how any would want to find him. ]

You're going South. Far away from the Dragonsong War as I can get you. [ His answer is immediate and final. ] My orders be damned. There is not a soul left of my unit nor the Heretics that coveted you.

[ Why none still breathe is not elaborated on. He killed his commanding officer to keep her safe. The others had died by the hands of Heretics. ]

My orders did not come from the Holy See of Ishard, Her Temple Knights, nor another great house. [ A shake of his head sends the fluffier hair in directions. ] Eorzea does not brand those that are gifted with magick, as you know.

[ He has not allowed her to properly see him. Not closely anyways. She does not need to see the haunted look in his eyes, the sullen expression, how very different he is from the young man that was fifteen. She does not need to see the brand the Garlaen Empire placed on him to mark him as an Eorzaen; one that could do magick. Nor does she need to know how he was sold by his mother to the Empire. ]

Ishgard remains sealed to outsiders beyond limited trade. If any of the Gods still give a damn, then, we can barter our way on an airship South.