Azwel has to, frankly, catch his breath after doing that, as the last time he did this he wasn't nearly so underfed. He startles but grins at the war cry--it's a little boost to his ego when people appreciate his pyrotechnics. He ponders taking that half-sword as some kind of trophy, but no. No carrying space. He joins the others, re-wrapping his face, as there is already ice on his mustache and beard.

When they find the cache, he notes that Furiosa has swept up the trauma kit--he almost asks for it but figures it'd be best someone else have this kind of resource as well, in case he gets taken down. Who knows if he can pull another attack like that out of the aether. He crams as many of the crystalline things into his carrying packs as he can, reminding himself to ask someone what they are the next time they can hear each other well enough for a decent conversation, which might be in a year the way his ears are ringing.

Onward they go, and when they find the beacon and its crow he stops, definitely feeling the bird's stare. Those crows--last time he'd encountered one, it had croaked a very ominous prediction at him, which has proceeded to come resoundingly true. He breathes a sigh when it flaps off into the distance without a word.

He's about to try to clear the ice off this next beacon when the radio crackles. He stops, listening keenly.