He smiles, and for a moment, the full of his attention is on Madoka as he makes himself meet her eye level.

"I know you will, and leave the sneaking to me. Now," he says, offering her his hand for her to take, because he may not have a golden core anymore, but he is and forever will be a cultivator of ways aside from the sword, and moving swiftly, supporting one slighter person, is well within his capabilities as a hale bodied man approaching middling years. "Here we go."

To set off at pace, winding through the tents toward where he knows the supply tents to be located, hearing the camp, the shouts of surprise and pain and confusion. Small blessings, that the refugees are not the overwhelming numbers, that camp does not make easy access for weaponised things, but he of all people knows how anything can be a weapon, and time is not on their side.