Before the group sets out on their mission, Indrys spends his time fretting about between the various wagons, checking on his belongings, preparing his gear, and mentally reviewing his catalog of spells and incantations. When it's time for them to leave, he takes a few crucial seconds to compose himself before mounting a horse and following along with the others. His back is ramrod straight, his face grim, and his knuckles even paler due to their gripping the reins. It would appear the the elf is no fan of horseback. As the group move their mounts into the concealing dust kicked up by the wagons, Indrys' lips curve downward into a frown as he considers the damage being done to his clothing; the dust and grit might stain his garments beyond repair, and they would be expensive to replace. As they pass the disabled wagon, a likely place of ambush, the elf casts his eyes hither and thither, seeking out signs of trouble. If we're to be attacked,
he muses, it would be here.
He draws one of his favorite spells to the forefront of his mind and keeps it there, much as in the manner of an arrow knocked and ready on the string of a bow.