[ Jill remains silent for a few moments more, her arms folded tightly across her chest as though bracing against more than just the cold of the tundra. She can't seem to stop herself from looking at Clive, only glancing away for just a few seconds at a time. Of course she's worried about him; what if he does not survive, even with the efforts from the healer? But Aymeric's arrival causes her no small amount of concern bordering on fear, even though the Lord Commander is a stranger to her.

She moves slowly, not wanting to cause anyone to react out of alarm, wishing only to position herself closer to Clive, as if her closeness will protect him if anyone decides to harm him. Surely they wouldn't, so soon after Phya said she had been requested to heal him, but she can't help but be wary. ]

He is not an Imperial soldier, at least not a willing one. Neither of us have been able to make our own decisions for quite some time. What we have done and who we have become was not done willingly, although I understand you will not believe my words.

[ She forces herself to breathe, feeling the sting of cold air as she does, but she needs to calm herself and calm her nerves as well. ]

Your honesty does you credit, Ser Ardbert.

[ His tone is even, just measured and leveled, as he is used to offering neutral observations. ]

You did not need to speak of your lance, yet you did, and that speaks to a sense of honor I would not overlook.

[ His attention flicks briefly to the armor Clive wears, then to the hound now at his feet. Torgal’s tail wags. A low bark breaks the silence, and it draws a faint crease between Aymeric’s brows: not of suspicion, but of contemplation. He lets him draw near, tilting his head slightly. ]

The hound seems to recognize me. Strange, given we have never met. [ At least, not to his recollection. ]