( She directs, he turns his glance. The wall, then. The annotations. He had not considered — but then, that is not his purview, not his strength.

Better, as America suggests — to make attempt against the formations. He nods once, then timidly again, and rouses himself from where he's lingered like a cooled, thickened shadow in the corridors to face the directions, blandly. There is no hint of a game, but then — the fire crackles nearby, pallid and menacing, and he would sooner attempt wit than test the strength of his finest wards and risk America's flesh in that gamble.

The runes seem well fitted, attached. The pulsing beat of his sword's hilt, hitting the wall, dislodges a few — and he turns, skittishly, fearing to have drawn attention to their end of the corridor. Two of the runes have peeled off, N and W. S and E withhold themselves. This will take... more brute force. )

Keep watch at the corridor's end. ( Brute force isn't renown for discretion. )