Flint-faced with distraction and quiet in her hat, Silas glances up to eye level in the midst of flicking the blanket out into rough order beside them. Nothing approaching a flounce -- this is the right amount of consideration for a roughspun blanket picked to screw on in the scrub grass. His belt jangles over her while he works, pulled loose to one side by the weight of the dagger.

“We shared a common priority.”

A crucial oversight for the prophets in question. He risks a longer look at her face, paused over the brace of his off hand in the dirt.

Didn't they?