The end of a hissed “Maker’s anus--” thumped out of him by the abrupt shove of Cedric into his hidey-hole, the Vint is crumpled like a sandwich in the bottom of an over-full lunchbox and about as well-positioned to protest. His own (lighter) plate pokes here and there, mostly into his own ribs; he hardly has a chance to think about reneging and reaching for his dagger to make room before that shimmer of green overhead saves them both from being flattened.

Gravel lifts around them with the shock of the impact.

It gives him pause.

Not so much that he fails to track the fling of Cedric’s arm through the slats of his helmet

“Broken?” he shouts to inquire helpfully, and maybe a little hopefully. Someone else making for their shelter catches a slap of ice full to the face for their efforts, no-scoped into tumbling back downhill in a flash of Vandren’s staff. Hard to say whose side they were on.

No vacancy.