It is entirely possible, Gwenaëlle thinks, that this woman has heard about one word in three of everything she’s said and filled the rest in with hon hon hon frilly baguette. Sufficiently possible that she doesn’t bother reminding her she’d already asked (probably serving only to ruffle her already puffed up feathers), but simply repeats, prompting,

“The landscape around the rift. So we’ve got a ridge— tree cover? Uneven ground, wide flat space, anything nearby?” To either keep in mind or to make use of. The nearest settlement’s further out, and probably if there were anyone nearby then Livia wouldn’t have been alone when she’d come upon a fire, so at least they likely don’t have to worry about hysterical civilians.

(Or they’re dead. She should have died, nearly a decade ago in a broken carriage, a thousand times more helpless than she is today.)

“We might have to make do with keeping the demons too occupied to focus on singular targets,” is thinking aloud, the likelihood of this fight ending up a bunch of people who aren’t exactly plate-wearing siege engines, something for Livia to factor in as well with where she places herself. “Scatter, distract. It’ll be faster if I don’t have to wait for the field to clear.”

Riskier, too, but if back up means a sprint rather than a marathon, that sounds better for what it looks like the state of Livia’s stamina might be.