Right. There's a job to do, and only they can do it. A decisive nod, and then he shoves the horn back over his head. It really shouldn't fit, but stranger things have occurred, and he scampers off to help others. Through flowers, through trying to bust the vines down, trying to help people shake this gloom that's settled on them. Until the thorns retract, because the band's gotten away, escaped without a scratch or a trace as to where they went next.

Everyone's dispersing to go home, no doubt. But Grujaja waits, and then extracts himself from the armor again. No more threat, no more reason to wear it. And there are people he wants - no, needs to see again. It's hard to catch sight of someone shorter in a crowd, though, so he'll stay on the Green and find a place to wait.