The Band of the Falcon has begun the arduous process of recovery after the Black Dog Knights battle, and the subsequent attack by the monstrous Wyald. In the privacy of a covered wagon, Casca and Judeau tend to him and you, respectively.

You're not the mighty White Falcon anymore. You're just what it left from it, a broken and pathetic being.

—"Owww! It'd be nice if she'd learned how to sew..." Guts complains about Casca's shoddy stitching skills as soon as she welcomes you again after bandaging both of you and stepping out of cart with Judeau. He comfortably lays next to you as you sit, chuckling as old memories hits back. "We must look like a couple tattered rags right now...well, at least we get to sleep while they carry us around. I've been swingin' my sword nonstop since yesterday."

You can't even talk.

—"...Ain't it hot, the mask? It's okay to take it off...No one's here but us." Guts's words snaps back you to reality from your inner thoughts, mentioning your horribly damaged face under the helmet. As you turn your face to the white armor—your armor, which you didn't wear over a year due to torture you had to endure. Noticing this, Guts raises an eyebrow. "...You want to wear that? The armor?"

...

—"...Yeah, that sounds like you. You ain't changed at all this past year. Alrighty." The mercenary smiles at your odd request as he helps you to don the armor on your bandaged body. The mercenary can't help but sigh as he stares to you, knowing that you cannot respond to him.

—"...This's a battleground after all. Gotta wear that armor...or you're good as dead."