Francis looks down at the sword, then back up at the young man's face, and a faint, rather dry smile tugs for a moment at his lips as he ducks inside, shutting the door behind him as best he can. Setting down one of the bags - its weight is clear in how much more easily he moves once its weight is off him, he pushes the hood of his cloak back, shaking rainwater and mud out of his face, and offers a shallow bow before putting his hand out to shake.

"Francis Fletcher, at your service. And I'm much obliged, sir."

He is a handsome man, under the hood and the mud, but by the firelight it's clear what a battering he's taken from his fall; there is blood on his face, and a bruise swelling on one high cheekbone, as well as his limp and the way he gingerly rolls his shoulder and grimaces before shaking the younger man's hand. His own hand, slick with rainwater, is cold as ice.

"I imagine we must be far from the only ones so stranded," he comments, after a moment, glancing back over his shoulder as another roll of thunder echoes through the mountains. "Thank God we both found this place."