There she goes. The crazy old lady and her obsession with horses. Maybe the cold was getting to her. Or maybe it was getting to him, since some of the lanterns had a bizarrely colored fire in them.

"I'm fine," he replies flatly,"Aside from being stuck in the rain."

Guts was a mirror of Lashan in that way, apparently. He would have said he was fine even if he was in much worse condition, if the previous fight was any indication. As it was, his face was a bit pale from the cold, but not nearly as gray as Lashan had gotten. The blanket had stayed his wet trembling, and he seemed rather attached to it. The cloth concealed much of the beatdown his body received, and he wasn't about to explain how his head still hurt as ferociously as his ribs did.

The uncomfortable itchiness around his leg does get him to notice a shard or two of horn embedded in his thigh. His legs were sparingly armored compared to his upper body, and tended to be nicked with small wounds more often. Thoughtlessly, he sets aside the clay cup (now devoid of warm drink) and fiddles with the things to attempt to pluck them out. They were more thorn than arrow in shape, so he wasn't too worried about bleeding out.