It's the beginning of the day for Lance, who at least appears decently well-rested as he sits on a bench and spaces out at the sea shrine, carefully sipping at a steaming mug of some rejuvenating beverage or another and preparing himself to go out in the torrent for another night.
He glances over his shoulder with a little smile for Colin when he comes in, but otherwise pays him no mind; they're all here for privacy and reflection.

What he doesn't know is what Colin is actually doing, and capable of, and therefore able to perceive: which is to say, a miasma of destructive emotion as thick and black as a stormcloud, emanating from Lance with the cruel confidence of a deadly parasite. Like an infected tick, it resides just under the surface, invisible to the eye but so obvious to anyone with the right tools, draining the life from its oblivious host.
But apart from that he seems fine.