Sparhawk has been tagging along quietly with the crowd. The pain in his shoulder has subsided to a constant throbbing, but Sparhawk is ignoring it. Much like the Chief, he's watchful, hand never straying far from his broadsword.

He wishes that he had his armour though. He feels naked without it, and he's fairly sure that Yeerks couldn't wiggle their way through steel. Sparhawk is not easily flapped, but the thought of one of those things crawling around inside his head is making him slightly more tetchy than is usual.

In the absence of anything useful to say, he has defaulted to stoic and silent.