[Why, they ask, and Guzma feels his anger spark again. It shouldn't even be a question, and he looks back into the fire, half expecting to see the shapes and faces of those ratty little people again...ratty little people, whispering curses and spitting rumors and gossip back at...at who? The Drifter? Or himself? Both, probably, and Guzma lets out a long, loud sigh, running a hand through his hair.

He shouldn't have to explain. He shouldn't have to, and yet...they should understand. They should understand that they have friends here, people to look out for and care about them. No one should ever feel like they're left out, and alone. He did, but realized he had people - idiots thought they were - who cared so much about him, they'd go to war to get him back, when he disappeared. Idiots...]

Because no matter what you think, or what them sneaks said...we all is part of a bigger team, yeah? You done good by me time n' time again...and I like having y'all around. You're...you're a good person - don't matter what no one else says or thinks. We can all see it, and s'why we throw ourselves to the gauntlet.

It's what a team does, when one'a their own gets threatened. [Speaking from experience, anyway.]