Sal follows the line of strangers leading the way up this cliff. For once it doesn't feel like an all-too-familiar march through the wastes of the Scar, as if they're some battle-shocked survivors hobbling together and doing what they can to forget the lives left behind them. No, this is just — like heading through a magic gate into some unknown place; that lingering lurch of sickness in her stomach included.

A Vagrant knows a thing or two about leaving home, however, so she adapts. The stairway etched into the cliffside doesn't mean much (eres va atali, as if it could); she's focused on a goal now, as well as finding some answers. Or, barring that, maybe finding some asshole who needs a good punch in the face.

At least she's trying. But this woman in front of her, as big and as built as Agne back home, seems to be moving along far too carefully. Sal eyes her with a frown, and that old scar slicing down her right cheek doesn't make her look any more pleasant. Fuck's sake, what's the hold up?

"You need somebody to hold your fucking hand up there?" Look, Sal's not really...great with manners but it's worth it for her to ask. She's not really in the mood to watch some woman shriek and fall to her death.