"Oh yes, I wrote it all up in a nice letter, which I drafted with my silver inkpen on shining white vellum and handed off to trained ravens," Sorrel leans his staff up against a nearby tree then sits to manage his footwraps as he's been longing to do for the last hour-- completely missing Cyril's second look in the process, "No, you goose, I would've beaten any letter here, so I decided to just come, instead."

And, since Cyril is looking, he'll see all the little changes. He stands a little taller than at home, but also Sorrel is thinner that he was, marked by poor eating. His shirt isn't just worn, it's the same one he owned when Cyril left the clan. In fact, all of Sorrel's gear is likely familiar. What might have changed is a patch here, or a replacement strap, or a mended spot, but it's all the same, straight through. The lone exception, marking the intervening time, comes when Sorrel bends his head to tie himself off: a new scar, still vaguely pink and shape like the branches of a tree, just showing along his back, peeking up above the loose cowl of Sorrel's scarf.

"She'll be as surprised to see me as you were, I'm sure."