“He’s wearing armor,” Sefton said flatly, as if that said everything about his opinion of the guy. It did, in some ways. What kind of person would randomly stand about in some over-elaborate armor? Sefton found it fishy, but they couldn’t exactly turn around and look for some other random bystander to ask for assistance; not with Devon’s possible head injury and their own hopelessly-lost status. He picked up the pace and, as soon as he was in earshot, called, “Hey! Can we get some help here?”