Aila had been lying mostly on her face, motionless, thinking dire thoughts about life in general and Elder Scrolls in specific, while a twig worked its way through the opening on her helmet to poke her cheek, because she couldn't even sprawl in a sulk without something annoying happening.

She supposed she should sit up sometime, so she did, wriggling out of her pack and peeling off her helmet, which released strands of red hair that had escaped her braids. Her armor still carried some of the chill from the icy Throat of the World, and water condensed on it from the much warmer, moister air of the lowlands, loosening the dirt and blood smeared all over her.

Annnnnd here was some milk-drinker being an ass. Yes, this seemed like it was going to be one of her usual days.

"Aila Steady-Hand," she said, as though he'd been polite. "Well met, stranger."

That was sarcasm.