Of course it was a losing battle. Reynard had known that from the start. One didn't get to be his age without recognizing such things. Not without a talent for self-preservation either. Yet he had been here, outcast as he was, fighting nonetheless. Why would be hard to say for anyone but himself, but he had his reasons. As usual, they were manifold.

It certainly didn't hurt his plans to be seen by a couple of people, at least on the fae side of things. What was even better of course was to be recognized. He had been keeping an eye out for familiar faces, so when the time that he'd decide to retreat drew close, he wasn't surprised to notice Eames. He had no intention of fleeing through the doors, in all likelihood that would be a situation of out of the frying pan into the flames for him, but he could step up to Eames with a relaxed smile, as if this wasn't the end of a battle and his clothes and weapons weren't bloody. At least most of it wasn't his own blood.

"What do you make of the weather these days?"