Ioleta finds a convenient log while the trackers confer, carefully prodding it and flinching away on the off chance that it sprouts spikes or conceals a pit. Satisfied that no trap lurks, she dusts off a nice mossy patch and sits, pulling her deep blue cloak around her against the chill of the morning. She blows her breath out in puffs admiring, not for the first time, its swirling smoke-like trailing. She imagines it is her spirit flying away to join the sky like she often wishes she could. She frowns down at her dusty, muddy boots and feels the weight of her earth-bound body. And her pack.