[ Guinevere realises she isn't alone after a few seconds of would-be silence. It's the little things that give it away: the shift of material in Merida's clothing; the carefully controlled puffs of breath; no doubt identifiable only to those trained in the art of hunting beasts and men. The tips of her fingers longer against her own bow a moment longer, but she manages to swallow the near reflex to string an arrow. ]

Are you ready to come out of hiding? Or shall I pretend I haven't noticed you for a while longer.

[ There's a lick of amusement in her voice despite her relatively offhand tone. Guinevere turns, dark eyes assessing the even darker corner of Merida's spot, her gaze fixed there even as she lifts the cup to take a sip of the water. ]