Rijn, his gaze fixed on the fortified site, opens his mouth to draw in a prodigious amount of air, evidently about to say something very loudly; but the weasel, grinning and soundlessly chuckling beside pointedly kicks his ankle and out all the air goes. Not the time or the place for shouting, apparently. Not in the mood to worry about invisible eyes attached to people unseen and finding the very notion of him having to design a strategy for approach, he looks around and asks the one sensible question befitting the circumstances instead. Orders? This is a hit team, after all. It has to have a leader somewhere within earshot!