Covered in damp and with one leg soaked in slime, Cyneric should have been grateful to cross paths with a blooded dungeoneer like Terrence. He was not. Certainly, Terrence had managed to stop Cyneric careening full-tilt off the edge of a cliff into the roiling magma below. A job Rajinder wasn't there to complete, as usual-- and most certainly it was beacuse of Terrence that Cyneric was now clean of slime and not so lost as he had been when he fled the gelatinous monster in the caverns above, but the delver was so... rude. Absolutely no manners, no decorum, none of the deference to which Cyneric's blood entitled him. He was a god, and yet here Terrence stood. Mocking him. 

"I suppose you must be strong enough to carry a pack," Terrence chuckled to himself, seering as he nudged one of his bags towards the god-prince. "At least." 

"I am no beast of burdern!" Cyneric snorted and backed up a step. Carrying their things was Rajinder's job, but no doubt the knight was still wandering about in the overgrown caverns, utterly lost and useless. This was precisely why Cyneric had requested Svarla. Certainly the mare was uncouth, mannerless, born of petty stock, but she had ever been dependable. 

And pretty... that didn't hurt. 

"You'll be whatever I need you to be, if you want to get out of here alive." 

"Is that a threat, sir?!" Cyneric threw his head up, drew himself to his greatest height. He was taller by a good deal than Terrence. Taller, and scrawnier. That little, sensible voice in the back of his head which sounded an awful lot like Rajinder pointed out the delver could probably take him out at the knees with little effort. His own brother had done so, hadn't he? And Osbeorn had not spent even a single day on the field. 

"Of course not," Terrence shrugged. "But that's the Dungeon's promise. Pull your weight-- free me up to save your hide, or it doesn't get saved." 

Cyneric could not bring himself to raise another objection. After all, some tiny, clever bit of him knew it to be true.