It isn't until the convoy starts moving that Azwel joins them again. They have the supplies, yes, but he doesn't like anything else about this. Every moment that passes without the trap being sprung grates on his nerves. His fingers twitch, sending little flickers of blue and red light into the air.

These Fallen creatures are mocking them, and that gnaws at Azwel's pride, but it's a small thing compared to the mounting restlessness. He shakes his head--sounds are getting too acute, a sure sign that he's letting this almost-paranoia get to him. He tries to tune out the engine sounds and, above all, that constant howling of the wind. Focus. Focus.

He presses on, staying in the path made by the vehicles, eyes searching.