With his helm mag-locked to his hip, the templar approaches the place of quasi-natural beauty with a look of consternation. Feeling the rain on a battle scarred, bald pate. He looks down for a moment, unsure if he likes the fact that his tabard has now been slicked against the battle-plate and looks rather like a soppy rag, then dismisses the notion, moving on until he finds something, or someone.

Erhart's eyes, like a natural set of targeters, lock on and acquire Zouichi, and he crosses to him, nodding his head slightly, letting the smaller man acknowledge him or not. The low hum of his armor's servomotors aren't lost even here, in the rain, an unnatural intrusion.