As the group rested, attempting to regain some of their energy and focus once more for whatever lay ahead, Pine set aside the journal he'd been writing in, something that was more noticeably frequent whenever they stopped for rest. It was perhaps somewhat unsurprising that he did not appear enthused with the task ahead, uncertainty showing in the lines of his body as he sat there, turning over what appeared to be small carved pebbles in his hand.
This was not just another fight, another battle for him, as the three figures had made clear to the entire group. It was likely to influence not only his life, but also what afterlife he may have, if their words were to be given credence. Those spirits seemed to feel that one of them would own Pine, and not one of them was that typically reassuring no matter who Pine worshipped.
With the battle having paused for them, the action and determination in him seemed to have faded with the space for thought. It was easy enough to forget, at times, that Pine was not used to any of this; not dungeons, not close-quarter combat, not even interpersonal interactions. He did not reach out for the comfort or reassurances of his companions; he never had, not with the group, and perhaps not even in his past. A life alone on the frigid mountains did not lend itself to bonding with others, or perhaps he had been like that all along.